


The ABC Affair Challenge 2019

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: ABC Challenge, Chases, Gen, Mardi Gras, Mayhem, Murder, Mystery, New Orleans, Parades, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 40,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Napoleon and Illya are on the chase in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The ABC Challenge on Section VII- Live Journal consists of a daily prompt based on letters of the alphabet. This Challenge was specific to the city of New Orleans during Mardi Gras

The prompts for this challenge:

**A is for Alligator**

Why Kuryakin followed his partner on his off-duty adventures was a mystery to him...of course there was always the reason that Napoleon needed protection from others as well as himself at times.  
  
When not off in pursuit of women Solo was often interested in acquiring a new article of clothing.  
  
This was one of those times and in of all places, New Orleans at the start of Mardi Gras.

Napoleon decided he needed a new pair of shoes, and not your everyday run of the mill European designer shoes. No, he wanted a pair of shoes custom made from the hide of an alligator.  
  
The shop he was headed to was one of the few licensed to make and sell such shoes, given the Environmental Protection Act had just listed the American alligator as an endangered species. The hides used by this shoemaker came exclusively from a local alligator farm where the animals were bred for commercial use.  
  
Because of the Act, the price of alligator products had become quite dear. That made them all the more desirable and exclusive in Solo’s opinion.  
A small brass bell not unlike the one in Del Floria’s tinkled their arrival as they opened the door to their destination located on Canal Street.  
  
While Napoleon discussed his business with the shoemaker, Illya wandered around the small shop examining samples of the craftsman's handiwork. He had to admit, the man’s work was superior.  
  
Solo sat down in a nearby chair, having his measurements carefully taken.  
  
"Your shoes will be ready tomorrow evenin’ Monsieur Solo,” the shoemaker announced.  
  
He was an older gentleman with a receding salt and pepper hairline, yet his face was quite youthful looking behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.  
  
“Merci Jacques, but...” Solo flashed one of his charming smiles while dangling a twenty dollar bill in front of the shoemaker’s face.  
  
The man sighed. “Would tonight be better for you?”  
  
“It would indeed.”  
  
The man accepted the bill with a sigh and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “Five o’clock?”  
  
“That’ll be perfect. Until then I bid you adieu.” Napoleon gave a little a salute.  
  
Together he and Illya left the small shop; they were greeted by the sounds of a rocking Zydeco band that had set up on the sidewalk.  
  
The singer was belting out a song while accompanying himself on a piano style accordion. He was backed by a young man on a second accordion, there was full drum kit, someone using a washboard, and several guitarists. There was a saxophone as well.  
  
“Now this is more to my liking,” Illya nodded while conspicuously snapping his fingers in time with the beat.  
  
“It’s catchy music; I’ll admit that tovarisch.” Napoleon leaned in so his partner could hear him over the din of the crowd that had gathered to listen to the band.  
  
“I would be perfectly happy to remain here and enjoy this performance.”  
  
“You’d even forego dinner?” Napoleon snickered.  
  
That got Kuryakin’s attention. “I suppose not. Perhaps we could go try some local cuisine? I hear there is a place that serves turkey and alligator gumbo.”  
  
Solo cringed. “I have no interest in eating what my new shoes will be made of.”  
  
“Turkey and alligator?” Illya joked.  
  
“Very funny. I’m fine with chicken gumbo but that’s it. On second thought, I’ll pass for now. I’d rather wander and see the sights. We never get to look around while on assignment here. Though we’ve had some good tours of the local cemeteries.  
  
“Suit yourself Napoleon. I will meet you back here at 5 o’clock to pick up your shoes, but please my friend, do not go and get yourself into trouble with some woman?”  
  
“Duly noted, now go eat or whatever it is you want to do.” Napoleon pushed his way through the crowd of people on the street disappearing from sight while Kuryakin remained, listening to the music.  
  
Finally when his stomach began to grumble its protest, Illya sought out the little corner restaurant that served the gumbo he’d mentioned.  
  
The gumbo was advertised as a savory blend of alligator sausage and stewed turkey served with buttered Leidenheimer French bread for dipping. Dark and with a hint of spice, this gumbo had the flavor of the bayou all over it  
  
The meal wasn’t bad at all but it was a bit disappointing as Illya thought the alligator meat tasted more like chicken. After paying his bill the Russian wandered about, enjoying the costumed revelers there for Mardi Gras.  
  
One blonde woman in a skin tight black and white Harlequin leotard sidled up to him, rubbing her body against his. She was wearing a black face mask, and small a two-horned cap with bells.  
  
“How about buying a girl a drink, handsome?” Her hands immediately began to wander down along is body. It was obvious she wanted more than just a drink.  
  
He grabbed her wrist circumventing her hand from wandering too close to his groin.  
  
“Thank you miss, but no thank you. I am meeting someone and I cannot be late.” He spun her around, sending her back into the crowd.  
  
She stood there blinking for a moment before she latched onto another man. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” She shouted in Cajun French.  
  
Illya shook his head, laughing to himself at the bourgeois debauchery that was taking place; it was deliberate overindulgence before the ritual fasting of the Lenten season.  
  
He arrived on time at the shoemaker’s shop, and leaned against the outer brick wall with his arms crossed in front of himself.  
  
The Zydeco band had moved on and now there was nothing but drunken revelers staggering along the street.  
  
Illya checked his wristwatch once, then again until it was now quarter past the hour. He sighed, not relishing the idea of going in search of his possibly wayward partner.  
  
Finally Napoleon appeared from among the crowd, sauntering along and looking quite pleased with himself.  
  
“You are late,” Illya hissed. “Am I safe to assume you had yourself a little rendezvous?”  
  
Solo actually blushed. “Well I wasn’t looking, but opportunity knocked and who was I to not answer?” His breath smelled of scotch.  
  
Illya gave no reply, why bother when he had said the same things time and again about his partner’s indulgent behavior when it came women.  
  
Napoleon opened the door to the shop, greeted again by the cheerful the tinkling of the brass bell.  
  
“Ahhh Monsieur Solo, your shoes they are ready and I must say I am very pleased with the way they turned out.” Jacques held them up for Napoleon to see.  
  
“Fantastic!” He sat down to try them on at first, then stood before taking a few steps. They felt like he was walking on a cloud.”  
  
“How much do I owe you Jacques?”  
  
The shoemaker presented his bill, and Napoleon seemed unfazed by the amount. He reached for his wallet in his back pocket, but paused. After checking his other pockets he realized his wallet was gone.  
  
“Son of a …” he whispered a swear.  
  
“What is wrong my friend?” Illya asked.  
  
“I think the young lady I had drinks with picked my pocket...say, do you think you could spot me the money for these partner?”  
  
llya huffed, shaking his head yet again. He picked up the bill and his eyes went wide, yet said nothing so as to not insult the shoemaker at the expense.  
  
Kuryakin opened his wallet and counting out the cash, he paid the bill. He put the receipt for the shoes in his bill fold.  
  
Leaving the shop together, Solo carried his new shoes tucked under his arm in a paper sack.  
  
“I was surprised tovarisch, no moths flew out of your wallet again,” he chuckled.  
  
“It happened only once, coincidentally when we were here in New Orleans, but I suppose you will not let me forget that, will you? **” ***  
  
“You better believe it,” Solo grinned.  
  
“So you are not even going to wear them?”Illya asked.  
  
“Not here, I wouldn’t want to scuff them up. I’ll save them for a less public occasion, preferably indoors at a fine restaurant.”  
  
“Just make sure you pay me back when we return to New York, or else,”Illya cautioned.  
  
“Scout’s honor tovarisch. Scout’s honor.”  
  
“That is what I am afraid of…”

.

*** ref.** [“That Voodoo That You Do So Well!”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032111)

  
**Translation- Laissez les bon temps rouler- let the good times roll!**


	2. B is for Barkus

Illya continued to follow after his partner after Napoleon decided to head back to their hotel to drop off his newest expensive acquisition of a pair of alligator shoes.

Kuryakin wasn’t in a very good mood after having to shell out the cash to pay for said shoes since his partner had his wallet stolen.

As they worked their way through the crowds of Mardi Gras revelers they encountered yet another parade, this one was run by the Mystic Krewe of Barkus, and it was making Illya a bit nervous.

The Krewe of Barkus’ parade consisted of dogs costumed according to a central parade theme. This year it was apparently ‘Spies’ as every dog being walked or sitting on the floats being pulled by tractors were dressed in black sequined suit jackets with white shirts and black ties as well as some sporting dark glasses. It was apparently making fun of the more traditional New Orleans Mardi Gras parade

“Hey look tovarisch,” Napoleon grinned.”Your kind of...well, they’re dressed like you. Maybe you’re related?”

“Are you inferring that I am some sort of dog?” Illya wasn’t happy at all. He was fighting the impulse to run away as he had a deeply ingrained fear of dogs that went back to his childhood in Kyiv.

While he was fending for himself as a youngster in the ruins of the city, just trying to survive during the Nazi occupation, packs of starving wild dogs would often attack and kill anyone unable to defend themselves.

Illya was terrified of them, in spite of the fact that he’d forced himself to go on the offensive and hunt some of the dogs. Their meat made a good meal.* Still, the old fear never left him. His training in the Soviet Union, having to fend off attacking dogs didn’t help either.

Napoleon could see the color draining from Illya’s pale face, if that was even possible. He knew of his partners phobia when it came to dogs.

“Don’t worry tovarisch, I won’t let them get you,” he whispered. “Come on, let’s go this way. We can circumvent the parade and get back to the hotel.”

Illya squared his shoulders, trying not to let the presence of the dogs get to him, or at least give the appearance that they weren’t. He didn’t do so well when a great Dane charged him. The beast put his front paws on the Russian’s shoulders and pinned him against a lamp pole.

Kuryakin’s eyes widened in fear as he grimaced. He was reaching for a switchblade hidden in his suit jacket when the owner, a petite blonde also dressed in a black suit and tie pulled on the leash.

“Down Mister Biggles, get down now!”

The dog obeyed, much to Illya’s relief.

“Madam, you should take better care in controlling your...beast.”

“He was just saying hello, he didn’t mean any harm and he’s not a beast. He’s a purebred Great Dane and his name is Mister Theodore Bigglesworth!” She turned her nose in the air with a huff as she walked away with her dog in tow.

“You okay?”Napoleon asked.

“Fine, I am fine, though that creature was seconds away from me slicing its jugular with my switchblade.”

“I think you need a drink,” Napoleon said.

“I am in full agreement my friend.”

The agents quickly crossed the street before the next float full of dogs approached.

Covered in streamers and colorful Mardi Gras beads, they ducked into a corner bar and occupied a couple stools.

“What’s your poison fellas,” the barman asked.

“I’ll take a scotch on the rocks and my friend will have a vodka straight up...make that a double.”

“Illya, you need to get over your fear of dogs.”

“It has plagued me my entire life and is not something that is easily brushed aside. Surely you can understand that since you have a fear of open water?”

“You’re right.” Napoleon lowered his head.

The drinks were set in front of them and both men raised their glasses.

“Here’s to fear,”Napoleon said.”May it never get the better of us.”

“À votre santé,” Illya responded.

### *À votre santé- cheers


	3. C is for Crawfish

# 

# The sights, sounds and scents of Mardi Gras filled the streets of New Orleans and with Napoleon and Illya having time to kill, that gave them the opportunity to enjoy themselves, for once.

Their assignment had finished up early; it was one that was non-eventful. No injuries were incurred by either man, which in and of itself was a rarity.

Neither of them was needed back in New York just yet, so the Old Man gave them a few days off on the Command’s dime to just relax, and as he put it…’not to get into trouble.’ There was a method to his madness thought, as he knew he would need them well rested for another assignment that was coming down the pike.

Napoleon had just replenished his stolen cash along with a new wallet made of alligator hide...luckily the identification in the stolen wallet contained a false ID and nothing to do with the U.N.C.L.E. The most important thing was his cash and luckily he was able to have money wired from his bank in New York City, unbeknownst to his partner.

Solo figured he needed it for whatever amusements he’d encounter while in the Big Easy and decided he could repay Illya the money he owed him when they got back to headquarters.

Napoleon being the networker he was, made a connection with one of the local debutantes and that got he and Illya an invitation to the Krewe of Rex ball, only the most prestigious one in town.

Costumes were optional, but masks weren’t. Given it as a ball, tuxedos were in order. Napoleon managed to add a purple sash to his black tux, replete with purple cumberbund. His face mask was sequined in a harlequin pattern with the colors of Rex and that was green, gold and purple. On his head was a matching harlequin’s hat.

Those were signature colors in the Rex Krewe’s first parade in 1872, when a newly installed ‘King of the Carnival’ broadcast in advance that balconies should be decorated with those colors. It was suggested by historians that Rex’s choice of that particular combination may have had something to do with the conventions of heraldry. It became their permanent colors.

Illya was dressed in a black tuxedo but his shirt, and cumberbund were black as well. His blond hair was covered by a black turban, and a small black sequined mask covered the upper half of his face. All in all, the Russian looked quite mysterious. That was nothing new in a way.

“Don’t you get tired of wearing everything black? Couldn’t you choose a more colorful addition to your tux? And what’s with the black shirt?”

“I like black.”

Those three words quickly put an end to Solo’s questioning as there was no arguing with the Russian when he’d made up his mind about something.

Upon arriving at a classic southern mansion located just outside the city, they presented their invitations at the door; once inside they were met by Miss Charlotte Beauchamp, the debutant who’d gotten the invitations for them.

She and Napoleon had a nice lunch together earlier in the day and his gentlemanly demeanor impressed her so much that she invited him to be her escort at the ball.

He enjoyed her company as she was a beautiful and intelligent Louisiana belle, she was only eighteen, but that didn’t matter...she was old enough to make her own decisions.

Charlotte was dressed in a pale yellow gown with a hoop skirt, making her look all the Southern belle that she was. She opened a white lace hand fan with a deft flick of her wrist, demurely fanning herself with a shy smile as she greeted them.

“Miss Charlotte, I am captivated by your beauty.” He took her white gloved hand and kissed it.

“Why Napoleon I declare you are so gallant, and that’s Queen Charlotte, as I am to be been crowned Queen of the ball...and that makes you the Queen’s consort for the evening.”

Her voice oozed with a breathless southern charm.

“How could I resist, your Highness.” Napoleon bowed.

“And is this the friend you spoke of Napoleon?”

“Yes, where are my manners. Your Highness, this is Count Illya Kuryakin.”

Illya clicked his heels, and gave a quick bow at the waist.

“Land sakes, a genuine Count?”

“I am noble in name only such as yourself. Russian revolution saw to end such rank in my country,” Kuryakin’s accent immediately thickened.

“I must say the way you are dressed gives you quite the seductive appearance. I declare, the ladies of my court are just going to eat you up, Sugar!”

Illya merely nodded his head. He was reluctant to go to this ball and now his hesitancy was reaffirmed. Illya Kuryakin had no wish to be fawned upon and accosted by a bunch of underage debutants.

“Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have more guests to greet.” Charlotte whisked away with the ruffles of her skirt creating an interesting sound.

“Why did you introduce me as Count Kuryakin?” Illya hissed. “You know that is privileged information! I told you it in confidence.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it and besides what’s wrong with being the center of attention by a lot of beautiful women. Just go with it, and have some fun for cripes sake.”

Solo watched his partner purse his lips and waited for the sarcastic remark that usually followed, but this time it didn’t.

Illya walked away into the crowds filling the ballroom, heading straight to the bar. After downing a several drinks he asked a few ladies to dance but listening to their air headed chatter made him decide he’d had enough.

Napoleon was busy playing the part of the Queen’s consort and Illya had no doubt the American was in his glory.

Kuryakin managed to get near his partner, whispering to him that he was leaving with the excuse that he had a headache, and shrugged his shoulders as Solo gave him the stinkeye.

Illya returned to their hotel room, changing into a pair jeans and a black sweatshirt and as he headed back out into the streets still crowded with revelers.

There was the scent of seafood in the air, and he followed his nose until it brought him to a small corner restaurant. The sign outside said “Mama’s Place.” Once inside he found the intriguing scent; sitting on a stainless steel table was a big pot filled with what looked like steamed baby lobsters.

“Here for de buffet cher?” A heavy set colored woman smiled at him. She was wearing a white apron over her red flowered dress and a bright yellow bandana wrapped around her head.

“What are those?” He pointed to the pot.

“Dey crawfish bebe and good eatin’ ‘specially in étouffée.”

“And what is that may I ask?”

“You not heard of etouffee bebe? Well h’yah, let me get you some some! You in fo a treat. Sit, make yo’sef comfy. You look like you need some fattnen up!” The woman let out a great belly laugh.

She disappeared into the kitchen and brought him an immense white bowl of what he presumed was this etouffee.

Staring at it for a second, Illya breathed in the delicious scents emanating from the bowl.

“Dis be étouffée. Is crawfish in Cajun sauce, on-yons, celery, bell peppas and tomatoes mixed with rice. Now dig in cher! Plenty where dat come from.”

There was no argument from the Russian when it came to eating. Illya demolished it, relishing every mouthful. Before he took his last bite his jovial hostess reappeared, setting a tray overflowing with crawfish and lemon slices in front of him.

“Here we do dis first.” She spread newspapers over the table. “Eat ‘em jus’ like you do dem lobsters up north. Cept you twist and pull da heads off first. Den you peel away the shell like you do wid a shrimp, and _et voilà,_ you ready to eat cher!”

After finishing off the crawfish, even Illya with his boundless appetite had to admit he was full. He washed it down with a large pilsner glass of Dixie beer, made by a local New Orleans brewery he was told was founded in 1907.

  
“Thank you Miss...” he smiled at the the jovial woman as he paid his bill, which came to all of four dollars.“Cher, people call me Mama Jo.

“Mama Jo that was possibly the best meal I have had since arriving in New Orleans.”

“Das good cher. You come back again y’hear, and bring yo friends!”

Illya headed straight back to the hotel as he was ready to sleep after his big meal. When he opened the door he saw Napoleon dressed in his pajama sitting on his bed holding an ice pack on his left cheekbone.

  
“What happened? I did not expect to see you until morning.”

  
“Seems Miss Charlotte took offense at me asking her to spend the night with me. She clouted me with her silk purse which was apparently filled with a few rolls of quarters...quite a deadly weapon I might add. I was escorted from the ball by several muscular members of the Krewe and tossed out on my ummm, dignity.”  
  
“You were lucky that is all that happened to you. Now let me see your face.”  
Illya examined the injury, determining nothing was broken. After applying an antiseptic to a small cut, he covered it with a bandaid.

“You make a good nurse tovarisch, thanks. So what did you do after you left. You did say you had a headache…”

“I went to get something to eat, which helped my headache, other than that there was nothing eventful. Now I am ready to go to bed.”

Illya went into the bathroom, washed up and changed into his pajamas and quietly climbed into his bed. Napoleon was still awake, and picking up his communicator he called headquarters.

“Heather?”

“Hi Napoleon, how’s New Orleans?”

“Lonely.”

“You’ve got to be kidding? I would think you’d be having the time of your life, especially since it’s on company time.”

“Yes one would think, but I’m in fact looking forward to getting back to New York. Are you up to some dinner and dancing, among other things?”

“With you handsome, anytime.”

Illya, laying in his bed, couldn’t help but roll his eyes...


	4. D is for Du Monde

Their time in New Orleans had to include a visit to the open-air coffee shop on Decatur Street in the French Quarter known as the Café Du Monde. It was famous for its café au lait and beignets among other things. It was so popular with both locals and tourists that it was open twenty-four hours a day.

Napoleon and Illya were seated at a table that lady luck had decided was to be close to the entrance, allowing a quick getaway if needed. Even though they were off duty, one never knew when something in their line of work would crop up. Both men knew that trouble seemed to follow them wherever they went.

Illya was just about to take a bite of a potato beignet when Napoleon’s communicator warbled.

Luckily the restaurant was packed and the noise from the conversations surrounding them muffled the sound of the communicator.

“Oh great,” Solo mumbled as he quickly opened the pen and set up the microphone. He raised his menu and propped it up in front of himself to hide the fact that he was speaking into a pen.

“Solo here, please keep your voice low as I’m in a public place.”

“Hi Napoleon it’s Wanda...I have Mister Waverly for you. Hold please.”

“Ahem,” the Old Man cleared his voice, indicating his presence.

”I have a quick assignment for you and Mister Kuryakin. You are to go to the St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 and there you’ll meet your contact. He's a double agent who has infiltrated THRUSH’s southern division and he has procured the latest Triad codes. It’s vital we get them from him in a timely manner. Since you are my best agents in that locale, your assignment to this task is necessary, rather than using someone from our New Orleans field office.

Napoleon peeked over the top of the menu at his partner and could see the look in Illya’s eyes. It was one of those ‘not again’ looks.

“Who is this agent and how are we to recognize him?” Solo asked.

“I can’t reveal his identity to you as he is deep undercover and for his safety the fewer people who know who he is, the safer he’ll be. He’ll be waiting for you at the main gate of the cemetery.”

Illya’s eyebrow cocked upon overhearing that.

“A code phrase will be necessary; you will use “What’s the best way to the French quarter? His response is ‘are you traveling on foot or by taxi? You are then to respond “by bicycle.” The cemetery closes at half past two, but you are to meet your contact at 7 p.m. That should alleviate any unwanted company. Once you have the envelope, deliver it immediately to our field office there in the city. Waverly out.”

“Cemetery again?” Napoleon sighed as he closed his communicator and let the menu drop to the table.

“Since you have has no one determined to kill you with a voodoo doll, we will have no need of involving Mama Luc again; that is something positive,” Illya snickered. “Still could they not find a better place for us to meet other than at a necropolis?” *

“Well at least our passcode is somewhat sensible and not strange like ‘the rain in Spain grows mainly on the plain…”

They both blurted out the response with a smile, “But only on Tuesdays!”

“Yes, the idea behind a series of recognition passwords between two players who are strangers should make it sound normal if you are overheard or should you mistakenly approach the wrong person,” Illya said. “Perhaps the people stuck in the code department are getting a bit bored.”

“Agreed,” Napoleon said. “In a natural conversation an agent might begin with, ‘What is the best way to the train station?’, to be answered by, ‘You could walk, but it’s about ten blocks.", followed by, ‘That's fine, I could use the exercise."

“There is also the option of building in an abort phrase such as mentioning a certain business name to signal that one of the parties believes he or she is under surveillance,” Illya added.

“Still, I think this will be a milk run.” Napoleon sipped his café au lait.

“One can only hope.” Illya said quite seriously.

Napoleon paid the bill, though his partner said nothing about where the cash came from; Kuryakin had been prepared to pay given his partner’s wallet had been stolen. Regardless, he’d make sure Solo paid him back for the purchase of those ridiculous alligator shoes…

They returned to their hotel room as they had some time to kill before leaving for their rendezvous at the cemetery.

Illya took advantage of the lull to take a nap. Napoleon donned his new shoes, walking around the room to break them in, and suddenly on a whim, he decided to head down to the hotel bar to have a drink.

He left a note for his partner…no need to worry his Russian friend.

*ref to[ “That voodoo that you do so well”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032111)


	5. E is for Endymion

IIllya was quite awake when he heard Napoleon leave, and seeing the note stating that he was going down to the hotel bar for a drink answered the Russian’s only question.  
  
He was fairly confident his partner wouldn’t leave the premises as he’d most likely become entwined with a member of the fairer sex staying here at the hotel.   
  
They had a 7 o’clock appointment to keep, and an agent like Solo wouldn’t miss it, at least that what Illya hoped. Then again never knew for sure with the American and his voracious libido.

Napoleon had a few cocktails with a pretty young thing named Lula, but for some reason he found himself losing interest in her. She wasn’t the brightest bulb on the string and though he wouldn’t have minded getting laid, he was more in the mood at the moment for intelligent conversation than anything else. He looked at his watch; it was time to go either way.  
  
As soon as Napoleon returned Illya sat up with a yawn.  
  
“So what was her name?” He mumbled as he ran his fingers through his mussed hair.  
  
“What makes you so sure I was with a woman?”  
  
“I can smell her perfume. Jean Naté by Revlon, I believe.”  
  
“How the hell would you know that?”  
  
“I am a chemist as well as a physicist and I have been able to replicate...”  
  
“Never mind I don’t want to know, but next time I need a gift for one of the ladies in headquarters maybe you could mix me up a batch.”  
  
“Sorry, that would be illegal,” the Russian smirked.  
  
“Very funny, and just so you know I only had drinks with a dish named Lula, who ended up being a dud.”  
  
“Good, because we need to get going.”  
  
“I know, that’s why I came back,” Solo crinkled his nose at him sarcastically.  
  
Getting to the cemetery was easier said than done as the only route they could use found them smack in the middle of the Krewe of Endymion festivities.  
  
Apparently this Krewe was so popular that onlookers began saving their viewing spots in the wee hours of the morning, even though the parade didn’t start until much later on.  
  
Endymion hosted the Samedi Gras, advertised as the greatest block party on earth, drawing tens of thousands from the mid-city neighborhoods to help kick off Endymion. The Krewe’s motto was ‘Throw ‘til it Hurts!” They estimated that they would toss thousands of baubles from their floats along their parade route.  
  
Samedi or better known as Baron Samedi was one of the loa in the religion of Voodoo and considered master of the dead. Loa were the spirits of Voodoo. also referred to as mystères or the invisibles, and were intermediaries between Bondye, from the French Bon Dieu, meaning ‘good God,’ the Supreme Creator and human kind.   
  
Samedi was often depicted with a top hat, wearing a black tailcoat and resembled a skeleton. He was sometimes known to carry a large snake on his shoulders and enjoyed smoking cigars.  
  
The sun had already set and the festivities were in full swing as the two U.N.C.L.E. pushed their way through the throngs of revelers, many of whom were dressed as the Baron while frolicking in the street as well as on several floats.

Napoleon and Illya finally reached the cemetery with little time to spare, but oddly the gate was unlocked and ajar.  
  
They peeked inside, using their flashlights as the light from the nearest street lamp did little to illuminate the area.   
  
As they had observed in their previous visits to a New Orleans cemetery, they found nothing but rusty ironwork and tombs with the dark stains of time running down their outer walls. Many of these above ground sepulchers dated back centuries, some were crumbling in disrepair.Angelic statuary, crosses and the roofs of the many mausoleums faded like wraiths beyond the agent’s small flashlights.  
  
The sounds of cicadas along with the noise of the Mardi Gras celebrations filled the air. Dotting the landscape inside the cemetery were flickering votive candles still burning, left there by the relatives of the dead.   
  
This was a Catholic cemetery but it still contained the remains of the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, the 18th century Creole priestess.  
  
Napoleon and Illya’s past experiences at the mausoleum of that woman would be something they’d never forget, or share with anyone else as they’d be instantly be sent to the Psych department for extended evaluation. *  
  
No matter how many times the agents had been in cemeteries around the world, the experience still sent shivers up and down their spines. Being around so many dead people might make anyone nervous, but perhaps it was because most of these dead were entombed above ground. It put one’s self closer to the corpses than if they were buried six feet under.  
  
New Orleans, being built below sea level meant that when there was a flood, any coffin buried in the earth would rise and float away. The solution to that problem were the mausoleums and weighted grave stones that were now used.  
  
“You don’t suppose our contact went inside do you tovarisch?” Napoleon looked at his watch as it was now five minutes past the pre-arranged meeting time.  
  
“I hope not. Our previous ordeals here were enough to last me a lifetime,”Illya whispered.  
  
“Agreed. Wait, isn’t this the place where you opened your wallet and a moth flew out?”*  
  
“Very funny. Keep it up and see if I help you out of a bind when you need money again. Remember, you better repay me the cost of those shoes..”  
  
“Don’t worry that blond head of yours, I’ll pay you back. I promised I would, remember?”   
  
“You said Scout’s honor, and whenever you use that phrase you are usually lying.”  
  
“Well I wasn’t this time.”Napoleon was beginning to get annoyed with his partner’s incessant reminders and he ended the discussion lest an argument ensue. Now was simply not the time or place.  
  
They waited another ten minutes until rapid footsteps came running towards them. Both agents drew their weapons as a breathless man approached.  
  
“No time for code, here take this...they’re coming! Go! “ The man’s white shirt was red with blood and he shoved a manilla envelope into Solo’s hand.  
  
He collapsed to the ground and Illya knelt, quickly checking for a pulse; he shook his head after finding none.  
  
Multiple footsteps came close.“Get ‘em,” one of the presumed Thrush goons shouted. It was obvious Napoleon and Illya had been seen.  
  
The Endymion parade was now in full frenzy and they’d never make it through the crowds that lined the route. Their only choice was to head into the cemetery.   
  
Inside was a rabbit warren of alleys and aisles, tombs erected oddly with no rhyme or reason to their size or placement and seemingly not in consideration of the others around each of them.   
  
There were lichen covered headstones and statues everywhere, making it difficult to see if there were real people lurking there in the shadows waiting for Napoleon and Illya.  
  
As the agents darted amongst the many family monuments, they encountered even larger mausoleums devoted to a handful of societies such as the New Orleans Musician’s tomb, or that of an Italian society.  
  
They hid behind one of these weather stained structures as they listened for signs of their pursuers. The din from the parade seemed distant, almost ethereal as it echoed in the air around them.  
  
They were surrounded by dampness, mold, mildew. The stench of old death filled their nostrils as they remained motionless there in the dark.   
  
Who knew what was there ready to pounce on them, human or perhaps not.  
  
Napoleon and Illya had plenty of inexplicable experiences in cemeteries so what would make tonight different from any other foray they’d made into a place of supposed eternal rest…  
  
They continued to hear the footfalls, now becoming distant along with the muffled voices. They seemed to be giving up, or at least that’s what the UNCLE agents hoped.  
  
It was like holding one’s breath, waiting for the exact second it was safe to exhale and breathe again...

  
  
* red "That voodoo that you do so well"


	6. F is for Float

They waited there in the dark, with their surroundings continuing to make them both a little jumpy, a half hour had passed since they’d hidden behind the mausoleum. Every little noise they heard, a scuttling rat, the hoot of an owl or the distant din from the parade put them even more on edge.\

Finally Napoleon felt the coast was clear as there were no signs of any movement. They stepped carefully in the darkness as they couldn’t chance turning on their flashlights.

Having gone only a short distance, they suddenly heard what sounded like chanting. The breeze had suddenly shifted, bringing new sounds with it.

A few rows over, near a particular tomb that was all too familiar to the agents, a half dozen people there were moving about a small fire holding a candle in one hand and a talisman of sorts in the other.

Someone with indistinguishable features tossed something into the fire and the flame exploded into a cloud. That gave off enough light up the area, revealed several women and a one man dressed in clothing one might see worn by peasants in Jamaica. Their faces were painted like skulls.

One woman held a chicken in hir hands and moved it to and fro towards the flames. The language they were chanting in was apparently Creole and they were calling to the spirit of Marie Laveau.

Solo and Kuryakin had stumbled upon a Voodoo ritual, and given their last experience with that sort of thing, they made a hasty retreat from the cemetery. THRUSH was bad enough but the last thing they needed was a loa chasing them.

As they exited the gate they found their contact’s body still laying there; his clothing had been searched as his pockets had been turned inside out, and his shirt pulled out from his trousers and his shoes removed.

“Best we head towards the parade after all,” Napoleon said. “The crowds will give us more cover as I suspect the Thrushies might still be looking for us.”

No sooner had he said that when they heard a voice calling out from inside the cemetery.

“There they are by the gate, after them!”

The UNCLE agents took off and squeezed in among the onlookers watching each float roll by.

“This way!” Illya shouted though his voice could barely be heard over the din of the crowd.

Solo had pushed through as he’d ducked beneath a wooden police barrier and ran up the street towards a float that had already passed by. Climbing onto it, he gave Illya a hand up.

There they grabbed a pair of discarded skeleton masks and top hats lying on the platform of the float and they quickly donned them. Those on the float were so busy entertaining the onlookers that they paid no heed to the two strangers joining them.

There were boxes of colorful plastic beads and baubles and both agents began tossing them to the crowds, mimicking the the actions of those already on the float. The people in the street had their waving hands raised high above their heads in hopes of catching some of the trinkets, souvenirs for many.

Illya elbowed his partner as he spotted three men dressed in suits, and wearing fedoras as they pushed their way into the street. Looking around, one of them...their obvious leader, waved the others on and they headed down a side street. It had to be the goons who were chasing the UNCLE agents.

Solo and Kuryakin remained on the float for a few blocks until it came to a stop, and there they disembarked.

The float coming to a standstill happened periodically so as to let people cross a street as well as to maintain a proper distance between each rolling display for safety reasons. The last thing needed was a collision between these large floats, or worse still colliding into the onlookers.

Keeping on their purloined costumes to maintain their anonymity, Napoleon and Illya made their way back to their hotel in the French Quarter.

Once in their room they could remove their disguises and finally breathe a sigh of relief.

“I think it’s best we have an agent from the field office pick this envelope up from us and bring it back with them to transmit to New York. No use us risking it since we were spotted by the the local birds,” Napoleon said.

“Agreed,” Illya set his top hat on the dresser, taking a moment to examine the mask before putting it aside.

Napoleon contacted Waverly and apprised him of the situation. The Old Man agreed with Solo’s plan and after a pause, he spoke again.

“Agent LaCroix from the field office will arrive shortly at your hotel room and you will hand over the Triad Codes to him. Enjoy what time you have left in New Orleans gentleman. Waverly out.”

“No thank you, no job well done,” Napoleon mumbled.

“Why would you expect such from him my friend, that is not his way. At least he gave us leave to remain here for a bit of a respite.”

Illya picked up the envelope and opening it, he looked over the codes. There were only six of them. “Odd,” he said. “In the past there there was an entire page of codes.”

He folded the paper and returned it to the manila envelope.

Moments later there was a knock on their door and both men automatically drew their weapons. Solo stood to the right of it, and Illya to the left.

“Who is it?” Napoleon called.

“La Croix. I was sent for a pickup.”

Illya opened the door, but instead of letting the man come inside, Solo stepped in front of him.

He was young, fresh faced with sandy colored hair and at best in his mid- twenties. Napoleon looked him up and down before handing him the envelope.

“Make sure you get this to the office immediately.”

“Will do sir.”

Solo watched as the young man walked down the hall towards the elevator and as the doors opened another man stepped out and La Croix stepped in, pressing a button for the doors to close.

“They’re getting younger and younger aren’t they?” Napoleon said.”Were we ever that young? No, don’t answer that.”

The man exiting the elevator walked towards Napoleon. “Mister Solo, I’m Agent LaCroix from the field office here in New Orleans. Mister Waverly ordered me to pick up an envelope from you.”

Solo and Kuryakin immediately reacted, dashing down the hallway to the stairwell. They bounded down the steps, reaching the lobby in record time, but it was still too late. The elevator was empty and the impostor was nowhere in sight.

They’d never find him out on the street among the throngs of people gathered there. The Old Man wasn’t going to be happy about this...


	7. G is for Gumbo

Solo ducked behind a potted palm tree in the hotel lobby and immediately contacted Waverly to give him the bad news.

The Old Man wasn’t pleased at all, and by the tone of his voice he seemed ready to give his two best agents a dressing down, luckily he took a deep calming breath.

"There are two possibilities," he said. "your room has been bugged or there is a mole in the New Orleans field office. I suspect the former for the moment but that doesn't preclude the latter. The staff there in New Orleans is relatively new, all Section III agents, most of whom are just out of Survival School. There is the possibility that THRUSH had gotten one of them to turn traitor."

Solo and Kuryakin were ordered to check their room for listening devices and doing so they found it was indeed bugged. How THRUSH had discovered their whereabouts was a mystery, leaving the possibility of a mole definitely on the table as they’d checked in the field office upon the completion of their initial assignment. Scenarios the Old Man hadn't addressed were the possibility that their room was bugged _and_ there was a mole as well. They only hoped that wasn't the case.

Before heading back to the field office to discreetly gather what intel they could on the satrapy...if there was any; they needed to find alternate accommodations as who knew how long they’d have to remain in the area.

Unlike headquarters a field office was small and lacked the creature comforts offered in New York. However, finding another hotel room would be easier said than done during Mardi Gras. The population of the city of New Orleans had swelled to tens of thousands, filled with both tourists and residents of the state of Louisiana who were in town for the festivities.

The agents left their hotel, though they paid for an additional night, leaving the possibility of THRUSH thinking they were still there.

Illya set up a small tape recorder and outside their room they recorded a brief conversation making it sound as if they were both going to bed early.It was set on a timer to play an additional recording that made it seem as though they were up and about in the morning, discussing where to go for breakfast. The device was left on the dresser with the timer.

They packed their suitcases in silence and bringing their luggage with them, they took up residence at a corner watering hole called the TruTone bar. There was something about the place that just called to them, or perhaps more to his partner.

Napoleon guessed it was the music as there was a live jazz band playing. Once inside they heard that even the owner would periodically join in the music, playing soulfully on an old upright piano. They also saw that food was served until midnight.

The agents made themselves as comfortable as they could on the wooden bar stools. It was after 10 pm and both men were hungry and tired. The bar had a nice menu of New Orleans delicacies and they both ordered a beer along with steaming hot bowls of gumbo.

Napoleon opted for the chicken and sausage variety, the sausage being made of pork and garlic called ‘andouille’. White meat chicken was used as it avoided adding a greasy flavor to the meal.

Illya, though not a big fan of fish, given his past imprisonments wherein he was forced eat nothing but fish broth countless times, opted for the seafood gumbo.

He requested no fish broth, and was quite pleased when his gumbo was made for him with shrimp, crab, crawfish, and oysters in a stock made from shrimp and clams. A sprinkling of Cajun spices added quite a kick to it, but Kuryakin’s legendary cast iron stomach was up to the task.

All in all their late night repast was what both of them needed, a hearty meal that would help maintain their strength, as who knew what would or would not be coming their way. The next thing they needed was sleep.

Napoleon struck up a conversation with the barkeep, who was apparently the owner.

“Know of any place where we might find a hotel room? There was a mix up with our reservations leaving us out in the cold, idiomatically speaking.”

“Oh I doubt you’ll find one as the city is more packed for Mardi Gras than I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been here for nigh on twenty-five years. That being said, I have a room upstairs that I could rent to you. You seem like a couple of decent guys. The name’s Cassius Pride and I own this place.” He offered his hand in greeting to both men.

He was judging the proverbial book by the cover as they weren’t drunk, and were dressed in suits...though the blond’s hair was a bit long, they appeared well groomed enough.

Pride wasn’t the most honest man himself, but he could still do someone a solid a once in a while. He’d already done them a favor by stowing their suitcases behind the bar.

“Lucius,” he called to one of the employees,” take over the bar for a couple of minutes will you?”

“Sho boss, “a white haired black man answered him.

Illya shrugged his partner a ‘why not’ look, and after Solo nodded his agreement, they followed Pride to a back room and up a narrow flight of stairs.

They were let into a large room, illuminated by the light of neon signs glaring in from the street. It was filled with wooden crates and brick a brack. On the floor was a large mattress with a few pillows. There were fresh linens laid nearby along with some blankets.

Cassius flicked on the light switch. “It’s nothing fancy but it’s clean, and bug free. I can vouch for that personally. Some nights when I’m too tired to head home I’ll stay here.”

“It’ll do fine; so how much?” Solo asked.

“How does six dollars a night sound? I figure that’s fair as Motel 6 charges the same, though this isn’t as fancy, still not a bad rate for Mardi Gras.”

“That’s more than fair,” Illya said. He pulled out his wallet.

“How long you gents looking to stay?”

“For a week most likely, perhaps longer,” Napoleon answered as he peeked out through a curtained window, “but a week for now.”

Illya opened his wallet and doled out forty-two dollars. “We will need a receipt.”

“No problem, I’m guessing you’re not just here for the Mardi Gras then? We usually don’t see revelers dressed in suits asking for receipts.”

“Just here on local business,” Illya answered.

Pride folded up the money, shoving it into his trouser pocket. “I’ll send Lucius up with your receipt and suitcases. Toilet and sink is through that door,”he pointe.” Pleasure doing business with you...say I didn’t get your names.”

“I’m Eddie Stark and my friend here is Nick Dominski,”Napoleon said. “We’re in the novelty trade. Our company supplies a lot of the beads and so forth that the Krewes give out from their floats.”

“You don’t say? A couple of traveling salesmen... I always wondered where those baubles came from. Is it a good business, selling novelties that is?”

“Good enough,” Illya said. “We are on the road a lot so being here should have been a bit of a respite for us; it turned out not to be so after losing our hotel room. You have helped turn our luck around sir.”

“My pleasure son.” Pride headed to the stairs, closing the door behind himself.   
  
“Enjoy your stay. Laissez le bon temps rouler!”

“Yes, let the good times roll. J'espère,” Illya called back to him, but repeated himself in English, "I hope."

Kuryakin joined his partner, nosing out the window and looking at the crowds below. There was the din from there as well as the sound of the live music below in the bar vibrating up through the floorboards.

“I have a feeling we’re not going to sleep very well tovarisch,” Napoleon sighed.

There was a knock at the door. “It’s Lucius,” the man called.

Illya slowly opened the door, keeping his gun hidden behind himself.

“Evenin’. I has yo bags and da receipt for ya’ll and here, da boss sent these up. On da house.”

Lucius held out two bottles of Dixie beer.

Napoleon accepted the drinks and receipt while the man set the suitcases down on the floor.

“Enjoy yo stay in da Big Easy gentlemens,” Lucius said before closing the door after himself.

“I will take that,” Illya snatched the receipt from Napoleon and promptly stuffed it into his wallet.

“Don’t get your knickers in a bunch tovarisch, and don’t say it... you’ll get what’s owed you.”

Illya lowered himself to the mattress, resting with his hands behind his head and crossing his legs.

“You realize we are better off staying here until tomorrow evening so as to not being seen out there. I suspect Thrushies will still be looking for us. Better to lay low during the day.”

“Are you kidding me. It couldn’t be any easier for us to go out. All we have to do is wear the Mardi Gras masks and top hats we purloined from the float.”

“Napoleon, I really think it is in our best interests to stay out of sight in the daylight hours when it might not be as crowded. People will be sleeping it off I suspect.”

No sooner did Kuryakin utter those words when Napoleon’s communicator warbled.


	8. H is for House

“Solo here,” Napoleon cleared his throat before answering his communicator.

“Yes Mister Solo,” No surprise that it was Waverly.

”After some consideration I have decided that once you and Mister Kuryakin have located and retrieved the codes, you are to destroy the satrapy. Even though nothing of consequence has come frome it as we cannot afford for THRUSH to get another foothold in the south, especially in the city of New Orleans. Our operation there is not one of our strongest.”  
  
"And collateral damage sir?"  
  
"So be it."

“Yes sir, we’ll get on it right away.”

“Be careful on this one Mister Solo. THRUSH knows of your and Mister Kuryakin’s presence and may still be on the hunt for you both.”

“Affirmative on that sir, Solo ….”

“Wait, Mister Waverly sir, Illya called out.

“Yes Mister Kuryakin.”

“There will be no need for us to retrieve the Triad Codes as I had a look at the document before it was stolen from us. I have the codes committed to memory, but I did not want to say anything until we were in a location that was secure.”

“Well done, well done. You should transmit them from the field office at your earliest opportunity Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Sir there were only six sequences of numbers. I could give them to you right now.”

“Six you say? That isn’t the full Triad list I suspect, as there should be at a full page of codes. Transmit what you have from the field office and say nothing of what you are doing.Waverly out.”

“Well here we are back in the action again. No rest for the weary,” Illya said.”I knew I was right about those codes.”

“Or the wicked,” Napoleon added with a wink. It was a catchphrase they’d used often enough.

They readied the mattress, washing up and changing into to their pajamas without conversing. Illya was the first to hit the bed, Napoleon climbed in after closing the lights.

“Good night tovarisch,” Solo whispered, but there was no reply; Illya was already asleep.

“How does he do that?”Napoleon mumbled as he rolled onto his side. He tossed and turned as he was correct about the noise keeping him awake. He finally dozed off, and felt as though he’d only been asleep for a minute when Illya woke him up.

“So soon? Five more minutes mom?”

That bit of silliness actually made the ever serious Russian laugh.

They skipped breakfast and headed straight out to the field office also located in the French quarter on St. Ann Street between Bourbon and Royal. Their destination was a nondescript building with a brick front.

Wearing their masks and top hats, Napoleon and Illya made their way there being sure they weren’t followed. Their disguises saw to that but one couldn’t be too careful. Once they were sure the coast was clear, they headed inside, removing their costumes.

The initial entrance was a gated archway that opened into a courtyard replete with plantlife and three tiered fountain. Sitting atop of the fountain was a statue of a winged cherub blowing a small trumpet from which the water flowed down to the next tier, which overflowed to the next. It was quite charming. Little did anyone know what operation was inside one section of the building.

Solo and Kuryakin were no strangers to this field office as they’d been on several assignments to the Big Easy already. The entrance to the office was off to the right and out of view from the area of the archway.

The entrance was a steel door painted to match the red brick walls , and one had to be buzzed in after giving the proper identification. Napoleon pressed a buzzer, spoke the code into the speaker and the door slowly swung open.

Apparently THRUSH hadn’t discovered the location of the office, not that there was anything of importance kept here. It served more of a surveillance purpose than anything and was minimally staffed.

Like every other UNCLE location, the interior was sterile looking with the walls painted grey. The real Agent La Croix greeted them as they entered.

Just as in headquarters in New York city, there was a receptionist's desk where they received their visitors badges. After they were pinned on they went through a second door into the main office.

Inside there were several desks with computer monitors, and a communications station; except for a storage closet, several sofas and a weapons locker, that was it.

“Welcome back gentlemen,” La Croix said. “It’s not much but it’s home. What can I do to help you?”

It was clear the Old Man hadn’t clued the office in on the plan.

“I need to send something to New York and will need the communications station.”

“Sure no problem. Miss Georgia, could you please let Mister Kuryakin use your station?”

The pretty blonde flashed a smile at the Russian. She was dressed in the standard UNCLE uniform for support staff, that was a pale yellow blouse and a black pencil skirt. Her curvaceous figure wasn’t lost on him.

“Why my pleasure sugar. The seat’s nice and warm for you.”

“Thank you.” Illya paused for a moment. “Lovely perfume you are wearing Miss.”

“Georgia, Georgia Couture and thank you sugar. Aren’t you sweet for noticing.”

Napoleon couldn’t help but pick up on the fact that his partner blushed ever so slightly.

Illya sat in the chair and began typing away, sending the codes out to New York. While he was doing that Solo pulled Agent La Croix to one side, asking him for any information they might have on the possible location of the suspected satrapy.

“Our undercover agent hinted at it being just outside the city, possibly in the old Gautier House.” He saw a look of concern in Napoleon’s eyes. “I’m the only one here who knew about his assignment.”

“That’s good to know.” Solo whispered to himself. “Bingo.”  
  
La Croix had to be the mole.

“I also know that he’s dead Mister Solo. I monitor the local police reports and that’s how I found out.”

Napoleon nodded. At the moment there was nothing he could do to expose La Croix. Most likely giving them the name of this Gautier House was setting he and Illya up for a trap.

“Thanks…”

“Nathaniel sir, but you can call me Nate.”

“Good job, Nate. I’ll be sure Mister Waverly knows what you’re doing down here.” Solo winked.

When Illya was finished transmitting the codes they left the field office, it was best to work out their strategy free of prying eyes and ears.

“LaCroix is the mole,” Napoleon said. “He told me he was the only one who knew of our undercover agent. Waverly specifically told me no one else knew and he wouldn’t even reveal the man’s identity to me.”

Illya nodded. “He did not give us the location of this Gautier House, I presume to not make it easy for us. He thinks we are unaware that we are being manipulated. So what is your strategy, since La Croix will let THRUSH know we will be coming? ”

“I agree and good question tovarisch...good question.”


	9. I is for Indians

Napoleon and Illya returned to the TruTone but sat this time they sat at a table. Not having had breakfast, their stomachs were rumbling as it was well past lunch time.

The place was quiet and as Illya had surmised, a good many people were sleeping off the previous night’s festivities.

Lucius came right over, bringing them a pair of menus.

“So how’s yo day going so far gentlemens?”

“Quiet, thank goodness,” Napoleon answered.

“Drinks?” Lucius asked, not judging what Solo had just said.

“Coffee please, black. It was a bit rough sleeping last night. What time did the band finish playing?”

“Round two maybe tree o’clock,” Lucius chuckled. ”Sho’nuff, da music can get purdy loud h’yah. Good news, there no band tonight. Jus’ Mista Cassius tickling the ivories I suppose. Unless’n some of his lady friends comes by to sing with a few o’ da boys. Never know when a jam session kicks in ‘round h’yah.”

“Lucius,”Illya chimed in.”Are you familiar with the Gautier House?”

“Lordy I sho is. It be smack dab in da middle o’ Indian territory.”

“Indian territory? As in native Americans?” Illya asked.

“No real Indians, tho some of us have Indian blood, but plenty Creole too. Das French or Spanish mixed wit da African and Indian.Yo see de be white folks Mardi Gras and colored folks Mardi Gras. We celebrates in our owns neighborhoods. Way back when runaway slaves was hepped by Indians, We gave honor to dem who hepped us by startin’ the tribes fo Mardi Gras.

We has different tribes fo different neighborhoods and de be sort of a competition fo who can look the purdiest. We mask up in fancy feather costumes and such. Dis also da time when diff’rences be settled, so sometimes der be a bit o’ fightin’ goin’ on between tribes.”

“So tell us about this Gautier House,” Napoleon asked.”Where exactly is it?”

“It be where my tribe paradin’ tomorrow.”

“And that is where…” Solo was beginning to feel like it was pulling teeth to get a simple answer from Lucius, still he could feel the man’s sense of pride coming through, and there was nothing wrong with that.

The agents had learned something new, as they were unaware that Mardi Gras celebrations were segregated.

“It be on Pearl Street, its a colored neighborhoods. Not long ago de be some white folks fixin’ up da house. It purdy old, back to 1880, das what I hear tell.”

Lucius disappeared to the kitchen, that gave the agents a moment to discuss things.

“The parade tomorrow might be the perfect cover, Napoleon whispered.

“As in creating a distraction?”

“That’s what I’m figuring tovarisch.”

“It would be fifty-fifty I suppose,”Illya said. “They might be expecting us today, or they will think we will use the parade tomorrow as a cover.”

“A chance we’ll have to take,” Solo nodded,

Lucius reappeared with two white ceramic mugs brimming with hot black coffee. Napoleon immediately took a sip from his cup and delighted in the flavor.

“What’s kind of coffee is this?”

“I suspect...chicory,” Illya answered after tasting it himself.

“Das right Mista Nick, it be chicory and mighty fine if I say so maself. It even better if you puts in some warm milk. We calls it au lait.”

“Eddie...you recall we had it at Café DuMonde,”Illya made a point of using his partner’s alias.

“Right, but I never got the chance to ask about it.”

Of course Illya knew all about it, which came as no surprise to his partner.  
  
"Chicory was cultivated as early as 5000 years ago by Egyptians as a medicinal plant.”Kuryakin seemed to a walking encyclopedia at times."

“Ancient Greeks and Romans used it as a vegetable and in salads. References to it are in the writings of Horace, Virgil, Ovid, and Pliny. Galenus gave it the name ‘Friend of the Liver’ because of its supposed stimulating effect on that organ. Then of course there was the blockade by the British during your Revolutionary war that cut off supplies of regular coffee. Chicory became the substitute.”

“I never heard that a’fore. I just know’d it come to New Orleans wit da French,” Lucius added his two cents worth. “Now what you like to eat gentlemens?”

They both opted for sandwiches; Muffuletta for Napoleon.

It was served on round Italian sesame seed bread with olive salad spread and filled with ham, capicola, salami, mortadella, mozzarella, and provolone. To him it sounded more like a hero.

Illya decided on a Po' boy, a submarine type sandwich using a wide piece of French bread filled with fried shrimp and oysters. Topped off with a remoulade which was similar to tartar sauce but reddish in color due to the addition of Creole spices and curry.

After their food arrived Kuryakin pulled a map from his jacket pocket, one he'd borrowed from the field office. Looking at it, he and Napoleon located Pearl Street and right where Gautier House was.

Heading up to their room, they spent the rest of the day working out their strategies after which they contacted Mister Waverly and apprised him of their plans.

“Godspeed, “ was the only thing the Old Man said to them. Like his agents, he believed they were walking into a potential trap.

That wish unsettled Napoleon just a bit, Kuryakin as usual seemed as if he had ice in his veins.

Both men got a good night’s rest since Lucius was correct about there being no entertainment that night. The noise from the street below was less as well.

The next morning, donning their masks and tophats again, they headed out. They were able to catch a cab though it was slow going because of the crowded streets, they finally it to their destination. It took all of twenty minutes, where as going on foot would have taken them well over an hour.

They chose to be dropped off a block away, and hoofed it over to Pearl Street; it was as crowded with onlookers just as much as the French quarter but the costumes here, well...nothing could hold a candle to them.

The Indian parade was already in full swing as there were at least 30 so-called tribes participating, many of whom had their own floats. It would be an all day affair.

Members of the tribes were masked and covered costumes of bright feathers in numerous color combinations. They wore immense tail and head pieces, as will as matching aprons and moccasins.

To Napoleon it brought to mind the Mummers parade in Philadelphia, however those were highly organized and incorporated instruments like the banjo and saxophone. This parade seemed more free flowing with participants moving in a less organized fashion...still it was spectacular.

Apparently their hand sewn suits were worn just once, and were made by the respective tribes with hundreds of thousands of beads, brightly dyed ostrich plumes, sequins, velvet and rhinestones. Each costume took an entire year to create and could weigh as much as 150 pounds.

The tribes and names such as Golden Eagles, the Flaming Arrows, the Yellow Pocahontas, the Bayou Renegades, Wild Magnolias and the Wild Tchoupitoulas.  
  
Each tribe had no king or queen as did the Krewes, they instead had a big chief, or a second and third chief, though each chief had a queen. A trail chief protected the big chief from the rear flank and a spy boy walked ahead of the tribe, searching for rival tribes. If he found a rival tribe on the streets, the spy boy tells someone called a flag boy who tells his tribe. A tribe member, called a wild man, would then clear a path for his big chief and make room for the chiefs of the two tribes to begin their performances which included the singing and dancing.

It wasn’t quiet by any means as the members of the tribes were chanting and in a sort of call and response, accompanied by hand held tambourines and other means of percussion. This played a central role in the Mardi Gras Indian spectacle.

A feathered float rolled by with women chanting out one of those call and response songs while keeping the beat with sticks. It was for a moment, hypnotic as the tribe members danced wildly, marching down the street as they sang out.

My grandma and your grand-ma were sit-tin' by the fire  
My grandma told your grand-ma "I'm gon-na set your flag on fire

Talk-in' 'bout, hey now hey now I-ko, I-ko, un-day  
Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

Look at my king all dressed in red I-ko, I-ko, un-day  
I bet-cha five dol-lars he'll kill you dead, jock-a-mo fee na-né

Talk-in' 'bout, hey now hey now I-ko, I-ko, un-day  
Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

My flag boy and your flag boy were sit-tin' by the fire  
My flag boy told your flag boy "I'm gon-na set your flag on fire"

Talk-in' 'bout, hey now hey now I-ko, I-ko, un-day  
Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

See that guy all dressed in green I-ko, I-ko,…

The UNCLE agents positioned themselves near the Gautier House pretending to be onlookers, waiting for the opportunity to act, and it came within minutes. As the chanting continued a mock battle ensued between two of the tribes.

Three Thrushmen stepped out of the broken down Gautier House, its clapboard siding covered in faded and chipped white paint. It looked as though someone had started to paint the wood a pale blue, but then abandoned the effort.

The goons walked into the parade, no doubt searching for the UNCLE agents, and that gave Solo and Kuryakin the chance they were waiting for.

They quickly headed into the house with their guns drawn as they tossed aside their Mardi Gras disguises.


	10. J is for Jazz Shirt

One by one more of the Thrushies came out to search the Indian players as they passed by; waiting a day for Solo and Kuryakin to show up had apparently thrown them off and they’d let their guard down.

Being the idiots they were the goons found themselves in the middle of a mock battle between several tribes.

Guns were drawn, and blood was spilled as several Indian tribes retaliated. They had their guns too; it was after all a rough area and a few people carried protection

The fighting grew to near riotous proportions, and no doubt the police would eventually arrive.

It wasn’t the kind of distraction Solo and Kuryakin had hoped for but it was one nonetheless.

They found the entrance to Gautier House unguarded, and moving inside, first into a foyer, they immediately saw a computer and communications set up in what was a formerly a sitting room off to their left.

They split up, searching for any paperwork, but most importantly a safe where the Triad Codes would surely be kept.

Illya headed up a staircase to the second floor while Napoleon searched the back of the house, given where it was situated and the sea level issue of New Orleans, there was no basement.

There were three doors off the landing upstairs, the first one Illya opened and found it was a bathroom. Hanging on a wall hook was a shirt with the name of Pete Fountain printed on it. Illya being a jazz enthusiast instantly recognized the name of the legendary New Orleans jazz clarinetist.

Kuryakin mentally nodded his approval; one of the Thrushies had good taste. Pausing for a second, he sniffed the air as there was the hint of a familiar scent.

He continued on to the next room where he observed an empty bookcase, but he was unable to find any release to make it move; it was quite solid with no marks on the hardwood floor to indicate it had ever swung open.

He tapped the wall between the shelves just to make sure...no hollow area behind it.

Finally Illya headed to the last room and still found nothing, no hidden panels, nothing. Then it hit him...

He returned to the bathroom and taking hold of the wall hook, he gave it a turn, just like the hook in headquarters, and voila, a secret panel opened in the wall revealing a safe.

Illya called down to Napoleon. “I found it!” Immediately he knelt down and worked on cracking the combination. He had no stethoscope and would have to rely on his sense of touch.

It took a few minutes, but click, click and the final click; it was unlocked. Turning the handle, he opened the door to find a single folder and the contents, a single sheet of paper with the codes printed on it.

“Napoleon I have the codes,” Illya said, turning his head as he presumed Solo was there.

“Good job partner.” The American was there all right, but his hands were in the air as a handgun was pressed against his ribs. Holding that weapon was none other than… Cassius Pride.

“I didn’t think you boys would get this far. I figured my people would have killed you by now but it just goes to show you that when you employ morons like THRUSH does, it ends up you have to do the job yourself if you want it done right. Still it was a stroke of luck when you showed up at my bar.”

“You had us fooled Mister Pride, and here I thought it was Nate La Croix who was running the show,” Napoleon said.

“Nate’s just a kid, still he did manage to get you here, with you being none the wiser.”

“Actually that wasn’t the case; we knew he was the mole. We just had no idea you were the head honcho.” Napoleon suddenly grabbed Pride’s gun and wrestling him for it, it went off as it pointed towards the floor.

Illya dove forward at that exact moment, tackling the man’s legs just as the weapon discharged and grazed the Russian across the left gluteus maximus.

Together the UNCLE agents overcame Pride, who was finally rendered unconscious with a sleep dart.

Napoleon tied Pride’s hands behind his back with an electrical cord and dragged him downstairs, while Illya hobbled to the only bit of equipment in the satrapy and that was the computer and the communications station.

He set up his explosive putty with a timer and hurried out to the street while counting down aloud “Five-four-three-two-one.” Nothing.

Illya swore in Russian when the explosion finally happened. It was pretty powerful and blew most of the house to smithereens.

The police arrived on the scene just as it happened, requiring the fire department to be called. Most of the crowds had dispersed, but the rest of parade moved on seemingly unfazed by the free for all and the explosion.

Solo flashed his UNCLE ID card, turning Pride over to the police, telling them it was he and his people who attacked the Indian parade. As far as the house blowing up...it must have been a gas leak.

The agents were given a lift to the nearest hospital, though Kuryakin fussed at being able to take care of himself….it so happened the hospital wasn’t that far from the UNCLE field office.

Napoleon left Illya in the emergency room, though the Russian protested loudly as his partner headed off to see to Nate La Croix.

When he arrived at the field office Nathaniel La Croix was nowhere to be seen. The staff said he’d been there about a half hour ago, but took off in a hurry. He didn’t say where he was going.

Solo pulled the paper with the Triad Codes from his jacket pocket and instructed they be transmitted immediately to Mister Waverly in New York.

“And under no circumstances are you to let Nate La Croix back in this office. He was a double agent in the employ of THRUSH.”

That news shocked everyone, and Miss Georgia began to cry.

“What am I going to do now?” She moaned.

Solo handed her his handkerchief.” What’s wrong.”

“Nate and I were secretly engaged and...and I’m pregnant with his baby!” It was then she really turned on the tears.

There was nothing he could do for the woman at the moment other than offering her a few soothing words. Napoleon asked one of the other agents for La Croix’s home address and he was off.

“Open Channel F- Kuryakin.” He called once outside in the courtyard.

“Kuryakin here. Where are you Napoleon?”

“At the field office but I’m heading to La Croix's apartment, it’s located above the Sainte Marie Blues club on St. Claude Avenue. He’s bolted. Are you mobile?”

“On my way. I know where that club is and am not far from it. Kuryakin out.”

Illya arrived minutes after his partner and together they burst into Nate’s apartment. They were too late as the place had been ransacked with the closet and dressers emptied. Nate left a trail of socks and ties on the floor in his rush to pack and get away.

“Well, the mission was mostly a success,” Illya said. He tucked his Special back in its shoulder holster, and bending over, he rested his hands on his knees.

“You okay?” Solo asked.

“Fine. I am just a bit sore in the posterior.”

“It could have been worse,” Napoleon said.

“Yes I know…” Illya nodded.


	11. K is for King Cake

Napoleon contacted Waverly to give him the good and bad news...good that the codes were found, and bad that Nathaniel La Croix had disappeared. He didn’t mention the issue of Miss Georgia and her delicate condition as that would be a topic for later discussion.

La Croix’s name and likeness would be added to a most wanted list kept by the Command. Eventually someone would catch up with the traitor and he’d be sent to Tartarus...if he lived.* Some Section II agents might be quick to use live rounds instead of sleep darts when it came to someone who’d betrayed his oath to the U.N.C.L.E.  
  
He was most likely hundreds of miles away, if he were smart and would probably head to a well established THRUSH satrapy in another state. The Hierarchy tended to execute those agents who’d gotten sloppy or failed to do their job, but Nate was a young guy mixed up in one of their schemes and not the one in control. They might give him a second chance...might that is.  
  
Sadly he was privy to enough workings of the U.N.C.L.E. that it would require some changes to be made in the New Orleans office as well as to the rest of the field stations dotting the United States and Europe.  
  
It would be more of a preventative measure than anything. It always wreaked havoc when an agent turned traitor forcing the Continental Chiefs to institute changes in procedure, upping the ante as it were when it came to security and vetting new employees.  
  
This wasn’t the first time an agent had been turned, and probably wouldn’t be the last. UNCLE agents were only human and subject to human frailties, though Waverly always hoped his people would be stronger than that.  
  
The Triad Codes would only be useful for a limited window of time as once THRUSH discovered Pride and his minions were missing, then so was their list of codes. There’d be a new list of codes issued and the game would begin all over again.  
  
Having them only gave UNCLE a temporary advantage, but it was better than nothing at all. The Hierarchy was always up to something so the access to these particular codes would give the Command a leg up on a few their enemy’s schemes.  
  
Solo and eventually Kuryakin returned to the TruTone as their accommodations were still located there. They’d still need the room as they wouldn’t be leaving New Orleans anytime soon. They’d be here for at least two weeks, but not having to pay any further rent would make the accounting apartment happy for once.  
  
The Old Man had tasked them with doing a security check with the field office and maintain it until a Section II agent was sent to be the station manager as it were.   
  
That was a change in policy, but a necessary one. There was no way to know for sure if THRUSH had been completely cleared out of the Big Easy so the presence of an experienced field agent was deemed necessary.  
  
Kit Kittredge was that man and he would be there within the next two weeks. Until that time, unless something major arose, Solo and Kuryakin would have to remain to handle things.  
  
The partners sat at the bar looking quite weary after the day’s events. Illya had purloined a pillow from the hospital and he put it on the top of the bar stool as his rear was still tender. Sitting down was mildly problematic when your ass cheek was stitched up.  
  
They were greeted by Lucius who was, as usual, in good spirits despite not being able to visit the Indian parade and watch his tribe perform.  
  
His boss was nowhere to be found, and that left Lucius and a few staffers there to run the bar until Pride returned. Cassius had gone off a number of times over the years so it was nothing new to Lucius.  
  
“Y'all look like yo need mo than a beer.”  
  
“Amen to that,” Napoleon said. “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks and Nick here will have a vodka neat.”  
  
“Is the vodka chilled?” Illya asked.  
  
“Only way boss,” Lucius grinned. He quickly served up the drinks, and headed back to the kitchen.  
  
“H’yah be somethin’ to lift yo spirits.”  
  
He set a braided ring cake in front of them. It was iced sugar toppings in the traditional Mardi Gras colors of purple, green and gold.  
  
“Dis be a King Cake.Da colors be important; purple is fo justice, green fo faith and gold be fo power. Each king cake has a tiny porcelain baby inside or mebbe a coin, a bean, a pecan or a pea. Who ever finds da trinket in their slice o’ cake get to be the king or queen fo a day. Our cake has da baby Jesus in it and brings luck an prosperity to whoever find it in der slice o’ cake. That person is suppose to buy the cake fo next year, but we don’ts hold our customers to that. I thinks the idea o’ the King Cake come from da French.  
  
Not wanting to offend Lucius, Napoleon and Illya each accepted a generous slice of cake, though neither was in the mood for anything sweet.  
  
Solo was in the mood to keep drinking, Kuryakin would have matched his partner drink for drink but all he really wanted to do was just go to sleep.  
  
Napoleon’s slice had purple icing and Illya’s was gold. They discovered it wasn’t a cake in the traditional sense as it was in fact made of braided bread dough shaped into a circle to mimic the appearance of a king’s crown.  
  
In the center of the tray on which the King Cake sat a plastic golden crown, and the cake was surrounded by plastic beads.

“Looks like some of our company’s products,” Solo quipped, just to

re enforce their cover story.  
  
Both men picked up their slices and raised them in a silent toast to each other before they bit into their pieces.  
  
“Not bad,” Napoleon nodded. He pulled a little figure from inside his slice.  
  
”Well will you look at that.” Napoleon held it up.  
  
“You my friend do not need any more luck and yes this cake is rather tasty,” Illya shook his head. He suddenly felt very strange... drowsy as if he were going to nod off right then and there; something was wrong.   
  
“Y’okay boss?” Lucius asked. “Yo don’t look so good. If’n yo gonna be sick, do it outside.”  
  
"Something is in this cake." Illya could barely speak.  
  
"They show is, it be packed with a whole lotta love. It was made by Mista Cassius' lady friends."  
  
Illya reached out to Napoleon who was looking at him crosseyed, and watched as his partner’s head dropped forward onto the bar top with a thud. Kuryakin passed out seconds later...


	12. L is for Ladders

Napoleon was the first to awaken; he saw that Illya was beside him and they were both tied to colorfully painted ladders leaning against a wall.

They were in a dimly lit room full of more ladders leaning against the walls; they were painted with the traditional Mardi Gras purple, green and gold. The agents they’d seen them along the parade routes.  
  
Apparently they were used by families to raise up their children, or anyone of short stature, in order to help them see the floats and have a better chance at catching the throws... that is the trinkets tossed out by the different Krewes as they passed by.

“Illya, pssst. Illya wake up.”

“Mmm, huh?” The Russian shook his head, but instantly regretted it as it gave him a headache.

“Wake up,” Napoleon spoke in hushed tones.

“I am awake.”

“Keep your voice down. I don’t know if we have company.”

“Where are we?” Illya whispered this time.

“I haven’t the foggiest, other than maybe some sort of warehouse.”

“Napoleon we were drugged, the cake. I am sure of it.” Illya gave a tug at his wrists but they were tied tightly either side of the folded ladder.

“Lucius?” Solo asked.

“Not sure. I recall opening my eyes at one point and I recall seeing La Croix. I do not know if is was a drug addled dream or not.”

“Maybe he’s sticking around to exact a little revenge,” Napoleon guessed.

“And maybe we should not stick around to give him the opportunity to do so.” Illya bent forward with the ladder now laying on his back. Neither man’s legs were tied so they could literally lift the ladders and walk.

And that’s exactly what they did. They walked slowly with the weight of the ladders on their backs; it wasn’t easy since their hands weren’t free and the ladders weren’t exactly as light as a feather either.

They managed to reach the warehouse door and miraculously it wasn’t latched closed. Napoleon carefully pushed it open with the top of his ladder and they exited, with no one in sight. It was dark and they had no idea how long they’d been out of it.

“Maybe that extra luck came in handy tovarisch.”

“That remains to be seen. We need to get rid of these ladders as we will not get far, especially if our escape is discovered.

They made their way along a narrow alleyway and exited to a crowded street. It was lined with people cheering on yet more floats slowly rolling along..

“Excuse me,” Napoleon called to a man with a two young boys. Apparently he was taking turns putting them on his shoulders so they could see the parade.

“Could you use a couple of ladders.”

“They are free,” Illya added.

“Free? What’s the catch?” The father asked.

“The catch is you have to cut the ropes holding our wrists,” Napoleon said.”Our friends tied us to them as a practical joke.”

“That’s it? Well sure I can do that for y’all.” The man drew a pocket knife from his trouser pockets and made short work of the ropes.

“Thank you,” Illya said

“No thank you Mister. Now my boys can see the parade together and hopefully get some throws as souvenirs.

“Good luck to you then,” Napoleon gave a quick salute and rubbing his hands to help the circulation, he and Illya disappeared among the onlookers.

“Any idea where we are tovarisch?” The men finally reached a street corner and saw the sign that read Bienville Street.

It didn’t ring a bell with Solo.”Shame you don’t have your map.”

“It is a shame we do not have a lot of things. No guns, communicators or wallets.”

“What about that eidetic memory of your’s Illya?”

The Russian sighed; he could recall things he’d read but it wasn’t like he’d read the entire map. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize it spread out on the table as he’d done with it previously.

“Anything?” Napoleon asked.

“Just be patient and give me a second please?” Kuryakin suddenly snapped his fingers.

“If we take Bienville this way,” he pointed,”that will get us to right to the St. Louis Cemetery No. 2 and from there we know our way to the French Quarter. The question that begs asking though, where do we go?”

“Good question. If we go back to the TruTone we would be spotted. We can’t say for sure if Lucius wasn’t in on the whole thing either. If we go to the field office La Croix will probably be watching for us there once he’s discovered we’ve escaped.”

“So we are damned if we do and damned if we do not,” Illya concluded.

“Precisely my dear Kuryakin.”

As they walked along the street they spotted a number of people passed out drunk on the sidewalk.

“New disguises,” Illya smiled.

“I say again, precisely my dear Kuryakin.”

The plucked two masks from the hapless drunks wearing oversized head pieces, one a unicorn head and the other a lion’s head.

“I think these will do, though our field of vision will be limited,”Illya said.

“He we’ve got my extra luck on our side,” Solo quipped.

“Well so far my friend we have not been that lucky...being drugged, tied to a ladders… relieved of our guns and communicators.”

“Always the pessimist tovarisch.”

“Yes I know...it is a gift Napoleon. So we head to the field office?”

“Do we have a choice?”

“I suppose we could…”

“Illya that was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh, all right then.”


	13. M is for Magnolia

Napoleon and Illya entered the empty courtyard where even the sounds of Mardi Gras seemed somewhat distant. The field office was off the main drag where the parades were in progress, giving it the needed anonymity that was vital to the spy business.

The only sound now was the trickling of the water cascading in fountain.

There were discreetly placed security cameras that would give the agents inside a clear view of whomever entered the location. Hidden machine guns could be trained on any intruder, just like the ones in the secure UNCLE parking garage back in New York city.

These guns here however, had never been fired. The New Orleans operation had until now been quite low key with a minimal UNCLE presence.

The images the agents on duty were looking at were that of two men, each with an oversized unicorn and lion masks covering their heads.

Napoleon and Illya removed their head pieces and deposited them on the ground near the entrance.

Solo’s code was given.

They were granted admittance of course, and once inside they received their security badges and proceeded on into the main part of the office.

Several agents greeted them, though Illya ignored the pleasantries and immediately sat down at the communications station.

This was their only means of contacting Mister Waverly.

“Channel D- Waverly,” he spoke into the microphone after flicking a few switches.

“Mister Kuryakin, where the devil have you and Mister Solo been for the last twenty-four hours? You haven’t answered your communicators and you have not been at the field office,” Waverly’s voice was not his usual calm tone.

“Sir…”

“Please do not tell me Mister Solo has been caught up in one of his liaisons again. A woman will be the death of him some day! Odds botkins, that man needs to learn to keep it in his pants…”

“Sir, if I could have...”

“What the devil are you waiting for Mister Kuryakin! Report please!”

“Yes, sir,” Illya shook his head, he did smile at the Old Man’s use of the phrase ‘odds bodkins’ and guessed Waverly might have been reading Shakespeare recently.

“Mister Solo and I were waylaid by, well we suspect Nathaniel La Croix. We were drugged at the TruTone bar and woke up as prisoners in a warehouse. Relieved of our communicators, guns and wallets, we had no way to contact you until we made good our escape and arrived here at the field office.”

“Well, yes,” the Old Man harrumphed. “When the devil are those codes being transmitted? Time is of the essence my good man.”

Napoleon looked perplexed.”The codes were transmitted yesterday sir.”

“Well we never received them. I want Mister Kuryakin to transmit them immediately. Waverly out.”

“Where is Miss Georgia?” Illya asked, knowing she had been given the code to send to New York. She had better have a reasonable explanation as to why it wasn’t done.

“Right here,” she stepped through the door of the weapons room, aiming an UNCLE carbine at them.”

As she stepped closer, Illya suddenly sniffed the air.

“What is that fragrance you are wearing?” He asked.

“Essence of Magnolia, why?” She thought it an odd question for a man to ask while a gun was trained on him.

“I detected it at the Gautier House but it did not register to me then. You have been there and is it also safe to assume that is was you who baked the drug laced King Cake that Lucius served us at the TruTone?”

“Yes indeedy. Lucius the fool will do anything I ask. I told him to serve that special cake to y’all if you came back to the bar. Told him it was a present from Cassius but not to say anything.”

“Now everybody remove your guns from your holsters real gentle like, put them on the floor and kick them over towards me. All y’all keep in mind that I’m a very good shot. I do declare, you Mister Solo and Mister Kuryakin just keep turning up like a bad penny.”

“So what happened to the codes, if I may ask?” Napoleon said.

“Oh there nice and safe in a cozy place, near and dear to my little old heart, sugar.” She pointed to her ample bosoms, and the way her blouse fit, it gave just quite a glimpse of her décolletage.

All four agents raised their hands above their heads.

Napoleon looked at Illya and Illya returned his look. They knew they had to act now.

“K yeye nogam,” Illya spoke in Russian, telling Solo to go for her feet, hoping that Miss Georgia wouldn’t cop on.

Apparently she didn’t.

“Hey, none of that,” Georgia warned. “What are you saying?”

“Just a little prayer to keep us safe,”Illya lied.

“Odin-dva-tri,” Kuryakin counted in Russian.

Illya distracted her by erupting into a violent coughing fit, that was Napoleon’s cue to dive low. Grabbing her legs, he bowled her over, though she got off a few rounds that hit the ceiling, sending bits of plaster raining down on them.

As soon as she was horizontal, Illya wrestled her for the gun and wrenched it from her hands.

Napoleon straddled her as she shrieked; she became even louder as he slipped his hand between her breasts and feeling around with his fingers, he withdrew a folded paper.

When he opened it, it was indeed the codes.

“Here tovarisch,” send these to New York now, before anything else happens.”

The two Section III agents were as pale as ghosts, and felt helpless to do anything; Solo and Kuryakin had moved unbelievably fast and it was all over in a matter of seconds.

Napoleon pulled Georgia to her feet and gave her a quick frisking. He told her to take off her high heeled shoes and kick them to the side just in case they were loaded with who knew what.

“Sorry we weren’t of much help to y’all,” one of the agents said. “I guess we’re still pretty green.”

“Hey it comes with experience,”Napoleon said.

The Section III’s handcuffed Georgia to a chair, and tied her ankles to the legs of it. It was a sturdy and made of metal, nothing from which she could escape.

“So where’s your boyfriend La Croix?” Napoleon asked her.

“Closer than you think. He won’t let y’all live, you know.

“Oh that comes as no surprise, “Napoleon smiled.” So tell me, that whole story about you being pregnant, was that true?”

She threw back her head as she laughed. “Me and a low level wannabe like Nate La Croix? Y’all have to be joking. I had to make myself seem like the poor innocent who was taken in by the likes of him. You understand, playing the sympathy card, sugar...to avoid suspicion.”

She licked her full lips into a luscious pout before batting her eyelashes at him, knowing Solo couldn’t resist a beautiful woman.

“That little trick isn’t working sweetheart,” Napoleon smiled at her.

“Now if you tell us where your pretend loverboy is we’ll make sure the U.N.C.L.E goes easy on you. Maybe a pardon if you see the error of your ways.”

He was lying through his teeth of course; most likely she’d be sent to Tartarus. The Command had no sympathy for traitors, if that’s what she was proven to be instead of a Thrushie agent in disguise.

Solo leaned in towards her face, not touching her but close enough to her that she could feel his breath on her cheek as he whispered to her.

“You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in a very cold jail cell...say in Antarctic now, would you?” His voice was clearly seductive, even if the words he spoke weren’t.

“Oh my goodness, your reputation does precede you Mister Solo. If my hands were free I swear I’d be fanning myself as I surely am having a case of the vapors,” she said breathlessly..

Napoleon had her right where he wanted her, and Illya glancing over at him couldn’t help but flash a half smile.

“Now Miss, if you do not cooperate and tell us where he is, then I will have no choice but to inflict pain upon you. Unlike my Mister Solo, I have no qualms about hurting a woman.”

“You wouldn’t,” she gasped. Turning to Napoleon she asked him this time, “would he?”

“They don’t call him the Ice Prince for nothing Miss Georgia and to quote Rhett Butler…”frankly my dear I don’t give a damn...if he does rough you up.”

“Now will it be my way or Napoleon’s way.”  
  
Making a fist, Illya pressed it into the palm of his left hand. It was a threatening gesture, and that along with his blue-eyed stare worked every time.

“I pick Solo, please?” Her voice had gone up to a squeaky octave.

  



	14. N is for Natchez

Miss Georgia was quite forthcoming with information on the whereabouts of Nathaniel La Croix. She did say she couldn’t guarantee the man would definitely be at the location she'd just given away, though it was his eventual destination. No doubt she was trying to sew a seed of doubt in her captor’s minds

She told them he was using the steamboat Natchez as a safe house. It was a replica of the old time paddle boats that traveled the length of the Mississippi river but it was only here for Mardi Gras and docked at the South Shore Harbor.

Onboard the Natchez were gambling tables and floor shows. There were personal cabins for a select few who wanted to travel by steamboat to their destinations found somewhere along the river.

La Croix would essentially be hiding there in plain sight and now that Napoleon and Illya knew where he would be. they’d be able to capture him at last.

Checking a map, the agents realized it would take several hours to reach the harbor if they tried to get there on foot. Hailing a taxi was going to be problematic as well now, as the crowds for Mardi Gras had swelled to immense proportions.

Their next option was a horse drawn carriage, which if they pushed the driver to quicken the horse’s pace would get them to the harbor in approximately 45 minutes. It would have to do.

They used money from a kitty kept at the field office and there they also replaced their guns and communicators.

After approaching one of many charming horse drawn carriages bedecked in flowers and Mardi Gras beads, a bargain was struck with the owner Luther Meredith. He and his horses, Daisy and Duke would take them to the harbor, with the agents paying a bit extra for the privilege.

When they finally arrived at the dock they found it crowded as there were quite a few privately owned boats berth in the vicinity.

Some folks were motoring out on the Mississippi, going for a pleasure cruise which most likely included a fair amount of drinking. Among the crowds there were quite a few drunkards passed out, or stumbling about with their friends.

This time there would be no need for Solo and Kuryakin to borrow anyone’s Mardi Gras mask. No, this was a local crowd, one with money and they were only interested in their own pastimes. Napoleon and Illya dressed in suits would easily blend in.

So far there was no sight of the Natchez, making the agents wonder if they’d been sent on a wild goose chase. Of course it was possible Miss Georgia had lied to them.

It was then they heard a long whistle in the distance; coming around the riverbend was the Natchez. She truly looked like a grand old girl from the glory days of the south.

  


As she docked a gang plank was lowered and several colored roustabouts dressed in overalls, their chests and arms bare, came down to the dock, sitting amidst a number of stacked cotton bales.

  
There they began to sing songs to attract customers to the Natchez.

It was all for show, and emulated the past on the river. Members of the crew appeared on deck, waving to those standing on the dock.

The captain with his white cap and navy blazer called out using a megaphone.

“Come on board and cruise the Mississippi in the style of yesteryear. Enjoy riverboat gambling and our ever popular floor shows. The food is good and the beer is cold. Come on y’all. What you waiting for? Only five dollars and this can all be yours to enjoy while we cruise up and down the river like the steamboats of old!”

That speech seemed to send thrills through the hearts of the onlookers. They quickly lined up to get on board as passenger capacity was limited.

Napoleon and Illya paid the price of admission and boarded, looking carefully in every direction for La Croix.

They were offered rentals of costumes from the time period and the agents decided it might be prudent to blend in with most of the other passengers who were attired thusly. Doing so just might help hide the agent's identities.

Both men donned tail coats with the collars turned up and ruffled cravats worn at the neck. The hat of choice was a top hat and they carried walking sticks like every other Southern gentleman would have.

The style of dress called for breeches and stockings but Napoleon and Illya passed on that, their suit trousers would do well enough.

Napoleon’s coat was charcoal grey, which worked well with the light grey color of his pants. Illya’s tail coat was a deep burgundy and perfect with his black trousers.

Beneath their coats were hidden their guns and communicators.

“That color seems to haunt you tovarisch,” Napoleon snickered.

“I like it, end of story.” The Russian deadpanned.

“Well excuse me,” Solo chuckled. He paused in front of the dressing room mirror to check himself. “I could get into this look.”

“Napoleon, will you please stop preening like a peacock. Here I found these.” Illya quickly applied a dark false moustache to Solo’s upper lip. For himself, he affixed a blond moustache with a goatee.

They now looked the parts of sophisticated Mississippi gamblers, and hopefully they’d be slightly less recognizable to La Croix.

Of course the costumes didn’t come free, and they paid for the rental, with their suit jackets being kept as a sort of collateral.

They stepped out on deck among the other guests, most dressed in period costumes but there were a few who weren’t.

There were even lovely ladies wearing hoop skirts, with off the shoulder bodices and puffy short sleeves. Of course matching bonnets were on their heads. It was the exact frou-frou being worn as if they’d just stepped out of the film, ‘Gone with the wind.’

The Natchez could hold as many as eight hundred passengers, but thankfully it appeared to be far less than that number; that meant a lot of faces to check. There was also the possibility that La Croix was masquerading as a member of the crew.

Napoleon and Illya strolled along the deck, keeping their heads slightly bowed as the top hots helped to obscure their faces but allowed them to peek out from beneath the brims to search among the other passengers.

They strolled to the entrance of the casino while taking in the some of the grandeur of the Natchez.

The boat had a working paddle wheel, tall black smokestacks and the gingerbread trim of U.S. riverboats from the Victorian era, the interior was surprisingly sophisticated with stained glass, Austrian crystal chandeliers, and walls graced with riverboat painting. There was lots of rich red velvet everywhere.

There were a dozen or more round tables, most of which had games of five card stud already in progress. With six seats to a table, the one closest to the door had an empty seat and Napoleon decided to take advantage of that favorable spot for viewing the casino as well as the door.

“May I ?” He asked the dealer.

“Why of course sir, buy in is fifty greenbacks.”

For a moment Solo hesitated as greenbacks were paper currency (printed in green on the back) issued by the United States during the American Civil War.

The dealers sensed Napoleon’s apprehension. “Regular U.S. currency is fine sir. We say ‘greenbacks’ to keep things a bit more authentic.”

Fifty dollars was a bit pricey, but Solo didn’t even wince as he took out a bill fold and drew the necessary funds from it. After all, it wasn’t his money.”

While Napoleon was scanning the room as his hand was dealt, Illya was on the move, carefully circling as he studied every face. La Croix, if he was here, was most certainly in disguise. So far Kuryakin didn’t recognize any faces, being a master of disguise himself, he could see past latex applications and stage makeup when used.

In the back of the room a heavy gold velvet curtain drew open, revealing a small stage; women rushed out onto it whooping and shouting as they began performing a rowdy dance accompanied by music played at a single upright piano.

They flashed their multiple colorful petticoats under their gathered skirts topped with corseted low cut bodices. Their boots were decorated with tassels that sparkled and added bedazzle as they kicked their legs up above their heads.

Their dance was not unlike those performed at the Folies-Bergère in Paris, though this was on a much smaller scale, and there appeared to be no nudity. Given the influence by the French here in New Orleans the style of dance though, came as no surprise.

Illya gazed across the room at one of the waiters delivering drinks to a table closer to the stage, far enough away from Napoleon.

The man was dressed in black pants, with a white shirt and a white apron wrapped around his waist. On the biceps of both arms he wore black garters. His hair was a different color now, gone was his sandy color and now his hair was black as a raven’s.

Illya was sure it was Nate La Croix, and at that moment of realization the waiter looked over at Kuryakin and caught his gaze. There was instant recognition on both their parts.

Nate quickly jerked his right arm and a derringer slipped out from beneath his sleeve to his hand. In one swift movement he aimed it at Kuryakin and fired...


	15. O is for Oaktree

The flick of Nate’s arm telegraphed to Illya that he was about to be shot at and grabbing the nearest thing he could to shield himself, he held up a silver serving tray.

The bullet hit with surprising force for such a small caliber weapon, and Kuryakin would have remained on his feet were it not for an oblivious busboy who ran into him.  
  
Illya stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and landing hard on his rump. He yelped as most likely his stitches had burst open.  
  
Napoleon, seeing the commotion, charged across the room, leaping up on top of the poker tables, sending chips and cards flying while heading straight for La Croix.  
  
The players weren’t happy but none of them were able to stop him; Solo was a man on a mission.  
  
Unfortunately his footing wasn’t the most sure and as he dove at Nate, he missed and landed face down on the floor.  
  
He grabbed La Croix by the pant leg, but Nate kicked Solo right in the gut.  
  
“OOF!” Napoleon let go his grip and La Croix took off.  
  
In the melee that followed Solo rose to his feet but instead of heading after Nate he went to his partner, giving him a hand up from the floor.  
  
“Napoleon he is getting away!” Illya barked  
  
“Au contraire, mon amis.” Napoleon took out his communicator and after setting it up he activated it, the device was receiving a signal.  
  
“I put a homing disc in the cuff of his pant leg, “he grinned.  
  
“You my friend can be quite resourceful at times.  
  
Solo wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it. They needed to get off the boat before the police arrived and arrested them for wrecking half the casino.  
  
They ran out onto the deck, though Illya was hobbling more than running as his wound was now giving him more pain than he would admit.  
  
Shoving through the crowds of passengers while uttering ‘pardon me’ and ‘excuse me,’ they made their way to the gangplank that had just been raised. They grabbed it, dropping it back into place just as the Natchez was preparing to leave. It wobbled as they bound down it and just as they hit the dock, it fell into the muddy river.  
  
They disappeared among the crowds waiting on the dock, waving their farewells to the river boat with white handkerchiefs in their hands.  
  
“This way,” Napoleon pointed. They had no visual on La Croix, but the signal from the disc was tracking strong.  
  
They stopped running and switched to a brisk pace, though Illya was obviously limping.  
  
“Do you need to stop tovarisch?”  
  
“No, I will be fine. Keep going.”  
  
All Solo could do was shake his head at his stubborn friend.  
  
The signal drew them to City Park. Founded in 1854, it was considered one of the largest in the United States, with more acreage than Central Park in New York.   
  
It was famous for being the home to the world’s largest collection of live oak trees, some more than 600 years old.  
  
The park was also famed for being a location once used for dueling. In the 1800s, men would defend their pride and honor by dueling each other under the oaks as it was a normally a quiet spot secluded from the rest of the city. It was where such things as two men trying to kill each other with pistols at twenty paces were remained discreet as duelling was frowned upon.   
  
Originally, there were two trees referred to as the ‘dueling oaks’, as it was in their presence duels often took place. Sadly one of the magnificent oak trees was lost during a hurricane in 1949.  
  
Many of the disputes between parties were either reconciled before the duel took place, but some were not. Dueling deaths were apparently kept as public record, with a number of notable government officials having died in this manner, however, by 1890, dueling was finally outlawed.  
  
There would be no pride and honor involved here once Napoleon and Illya caught up with the duplicitous La Croix. No dueling either. He would be captured or killed, period. Preferably the former but neither agent had a problem doing away with a traitor.  
  
The signal had become even stronger, indicating their quarry was close at hand, though there was a problem over which the UNCLE agents had no control. The sun had set, and with minimal lighting available in the park, it would make it all the more difficult to find the man.

  
  
The trees covered in lichen and Spanish moss filtered the light of the rising moon. That would be the only light by which they could rely on to see, but as a soft breeze blew, everything around them moved. The rustling gave the the impression that someone might be there hiding in the darkness at every turn.

  
Cicadas sang out, croaking frogs added their voices, and owl hooted off in the distance.  
  
The shadows cast by the branches and moss danced in the moonlight, making it impossible to see if Nate was there.  
  
The signal strong, and as they crept closer to its perceived position the agents readied to pounce.  
  
As they dashed into the darkness they discovered Nate was gone; the homing disc was there on the ground as it must have dislodged from his pant leg.  
  
“I’m getting a little tired of this cat and mouse game tovarisch,” Napoleon leaned against one of the mighty oaks. When his partner didn’t respond, he squinted into the darkness.  
  
“Illya? Are you okay?”  
  
He finally heard a grunt and moved towards it.  
  
“Here Napoleon, I am on the ground. I am bleeding again; my stitches need replacing.”  
  
Solo gave his partner a hand up, and wrapping his arm around Illya’s waist, holding the Russian’s arm across his shoulders, he helped him hobble along.   
  
It was going to take them some time to make their way through the darkness and find a place where they might get to a telephone to call for an ambulance.  
  
The ever stubborn Kuryakin protested against that plan, but Napoleon insisted.

  
They eventually reached a street and there on the corner under a street lamp was a phone booth.   
  
Not seeing a street sign, Solo left Illya by the phone and enquired inside a local jazz bar as to where they were.  
  
It was surprisingly quiet inside.The musicians were white haired and looked as though they’d seen hard times; their faces were deeply creased with careworn lines.   
  
They were playing softly in the corner of the bar; there was no stage; playing mostly to themselves as there were few patrons.   
  
There was the distinct odor of marijuana wafting in the air along with the smell of cigarette smoke.  
  
“You all right sugar?” A waitress asked. “Someone beat you up? You look like you was on the Natchez with those fancy duds of yours.”  
  
“Very good guess on your part ...Miss?”  
  
“Fanchon, Fanchon DuBois. This here is my bar.”  
  
“Fanchon, my name is Napoleon; my friend is outside by the phone booth and he’s in need of some medical assistance. Where are we so I can call an ambulance?”  
  
“Napoleon? Well sugar don’t that name beat all. You bring your friend ...wait. Henri DuBois, you get yourself over here right now and help this gentleman. His friend outside and he be hurting.”  
  
“Oui ma mère!” A lanky teenager with dark curly hair called out to her as she was obviously his mother.  
  
Together Napoleon and Henri brought Illya inside to a back room. There Frachon appeared with box of medical supplies, mostly bandages, iodine, tweezers, along with spool of black thread and a needle. She also carried a stainless steel bowl filled with clean warm water and a cloth with which to wash the wound.  
  
Kuryakin was laid face first on a cot, and said nothing as Frachon examined his injury.  
  
“This nothing cher, I can fix you right up.”   
  
Frachon went about cleaning the wound, removing the old stitches and adding her own neat stitching to close it. She snipped the thread with a small pair of scissors, and then with a cotton ball she applied iodine.  
  
That made Illya hiss just a little.  
  
“Sorry cher.”  
  
“No, it is fine, thank you for your assistance,” Illya tried getting up, but she pushed him back down.  
  
“Non non, you need to rest a bit. You as pale as a fantom.”  
  
“I assure you Madam this is my natural coloring.”  
  
“Well you need to eat before you leave. You lose a bit of blood. You hungry I think, oui?”  
  
“Oui. Je me sens un peu... peckish.”  
  
“Oh vous parlez français monsieur. C’est bon!”  
  
“Oui, et merci.Je parle un petit peu,” he lied, telling her he only knew a little French as he was in no mood to engage the woman in any sort of conversation, even though he was grateful for her ministrations. It was better than having to return to a hospital and less complicated.  
  
Napoleon stood by in silence, enjoying watching his partner squirm just a little bit, in the figurative sense that is.  
  
Frachon brought them both heaping bowls of bouillabaisse. It was loaded with ingredients...sea bass, red snapper, scallops, clams, crab meat and shrimp in a delicately seasoned clam broth.  
  
“Merci Frachon,” Napoleon said.” This is absolutely out of this world. It was perhaps the best bouillabaisse he’d ever tasted.  
  
“How is it with food like this your place is not overflowing with customers,” Illya asked.  
  
“Alors, we aren’t in a very good location I’m afraid.”  
  
“Then why not get a job as a chef in one of the better restaurants in the city, where people would no doubt flock to eat this,” Napoleon said.  
  
 _“Monsieur,_ I am Creole and people of mixed blood aren’t hired in such places exceot to do menial work. We make do on our own. The locals come here enough and I make a nice living. Besides, this is my place and no one tells me what to do. _Vous comprends?"_   
  
“We will recommend your establishment to anyone we know who is coming to New Orleans. Frachon, thank you for your food as well as your assistance,” Illya said. “I am afraid we must be going.”  
  
“What do we owe you?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“Nothing Monsieurs. It was my Christian duty to help someone in need.”  
  
“Merci,” Illya bowed his head to her, but Solo saying his thanks, kissed her on the hand.  
  
They bid her au revoir and headed out the door.  
  
“Bon chance,” she wished them luck as she had a funny feeling these two would need it. She recognized a gunshot wound when she saw one, and wondered what kind of trouble in which they might have been entangled.  
  
The Natchez usually didn’t have problems with their clients, but still now and then arguments over gambling debts did arise, and they'd been dressed like the people frequenting the riverboat.


	16. P is for Pelican

They finally made it back to the harbor and it was there Napoleon insisted Illya take a rest on one of the many benches that lined the docks.

It was late and everything was serene. No one was around and the Natchez was long gone.

They could hear the sounds of the river and it had a rather calming effect on both of them.

“This is nice for a change, just a bit of peace and quiet.” Napoleon said. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his inside pocket and lit up a cigarette for himself. He would have offered one to Kuryakin but it was his last one. After a long drag he held it out to his partner but for once the Russian waved it off.

“Peace and quiet can only be a lull before the storm perhaps,” Illya countered.

“Always have to ruin the moment, don’t you?

“That was not my intention my friend, but it would stand to reason that things things will soon ramp up. It is just a matter of the odds…”

Napoleon sighed. “Yes I know. I don't need to be reminded."

The repeat of a gunshot rang out, ricocheting off the side of the bench on which the agents sat. They drew their guns and took off running along the dock and doing so, they disturbed a large flock of white pelicans nesting on the many pylons anchored along the dockside.  
  
Most of the birds flew off in every possible direction. Some of them could have weighed as much as 30 pounds with a wingspan that reached as much as 110 inches. They were big by any standard.

They temporarily blocked the line of sight for whoever had taken a shot at the agents.

Some of the pelicans remained on the pylons, flapping their wings, forcing air from their lungs and that produced a low, hoarse sound. Their calls echoed in the air.

They gave Napoleon and Illya enough cover to make their getaway. Under such duress, Kuryakin’s body produced enough adrenaline to will himself to run in spite of the pain in his ass.

When they were far enough away from the docks, they slowed, huffing and puffing for air as they found cover nearby in a darkened alleyway.

“I do not like role reversals,” Illya gasped.

“You mean us being the hunted instead of the hunter?”

“Precisely.” Illya suddenly slipped to the ground as he’d become light headed. The fight or flight instinct had kicked in but once he stopped moving his body was drained of any remaining energy and he passed out.

Napoleon quickly examined his partner, making sure he hadn’t been wounded again; he was fine, but his trouser leg was quite bloody.

“Come on buddy boy, wake up. Not a good time to be taking a nap.” He gave several gentle slaps to Kuryakin’s face.

Illya woke up swinging, connecting with Solo’s chin. Still it was a weak punch and no damage done.

“Easy there tovarisch, it’s me.” Napoleon drew back.

“Sorry, I was not myself.”

“Clearly. Come on, let’s get going before the shooter catches up to us.”

“You know it has to be La Croix,” Illya said.

“I have no doubts about that,”Napoleon hefted his partner to his feet and hung onto him.

They headed along Hayne Boulevard and swung right at Bullard Avenue. There Solo finally paused to contact the field office and allow Illya a breather. In truth he was a bit tired as well, but Kuryakin was definitely weakened from blood loss, and the chase of course.

He knew they couldn’t continue on foot and he ordered one of the Section III agents to get a car and come for them. The closest landmark he could give them was the Bon Temp Bayou Grocery Store.

Apparently Kripke knew exactly where it was, and there Napoleon and Illya waited in the shadows for their lift while remaining near the darkened store.

It was nearly an hour later when Newt Kripke arrived, driving a metallic grey Chevy Corvair. It was a compact car, perfect for navigating through the city most of the time.

“What took you so long?” Napoleon asked.

“Sorry sir, it couldn’t be helped as our motorpool garage isn’t near the field office and then of course there were the parades. Too many streets closed down for them, and too many people still wandering around...most of them drunk I'm afraid."

“It's an interesting town you live in Newt; now help me get Mister Kuryakin in the car. He’s pretty wiped out.”

“Was he injured again sir.”

“Only his dignity,” Napoleon winked.

The drive back to the field office felt like an eternity, but Kripke becoming wise to the revelers decided take a circuitous route and brought the car into the gated courtyard rather than trying to return it to the small garage where they kept the motorpool cars. Unlike New York's motorpool, it was a relatively unsecured location and used simply for parking their vehicles.

Illya was helped inside and a cot was set up for him, though he became a bit argumentative at being babied. It wasn’t a serious wound; his landing on his rear had simply aggravated it. Having it restictched didn't exactly help the pain, then of course there had been some blood loss too.  
  
His attitude was nothing new to Solo, but the junior agents didn't know what to make of Kuryakin. They'd heard he was tough, but this took the cake in their estimation.

Kripke had taken the initiative and retrieved their suitcases from the room at the TruTone. That gave Illya clean pants in which to change.The bar was in the process of being shut down as word had finally gotten out that Cassius Pride had been arrested and was going to prison.

The liquor and pretty much everything of value downstairs in the bar had been divided among the employees, and they took pretty much everything that wasn't nailed down. To them it was minor compensation for not getting their last paycheck. Cassius didn't keep much cash around; he didn't even lock his safe for that reason.  
  
Lucius was in the middle of boarding up the place when Kripke arrived and was permitted upstairs to get what he needed.

That was the end of the TruTone bar. Lucius was leaving town, heading up to Mississippi to visit kinfolk. He’d saved enough money over the years that would allow him that comfort in his old age. He could do odd chores to help out the family, and they in turn offered him a room with a rocking chair of his own on the front porch.

He was quite a good cook, and he thought he might be able to open up a little juke joint. Could be some musicians would drop by to play; he found the thought of that purdy nice. His cousin made his own moonshine, so there was a good chance it could happen.

Napoleon pulled up a chair next to his partner who had finally fallen asleep on the cot. He tried not to doze off himself but it was two in the morning and he was dog tired.

Kripke and the other agents named Valmont and Jennings took turns napping in their chairs and watching the security monitors. La Croix was hunting Solo and Kuryakin according to the senior agents and that dictated the staff remain sequestered in the office. It was the safest option at the moment.

Miss Georgia was still tied up in the armory room, and there she’d stay. Kripke had taken the initiative of shooting her with a sleep dart; that way she’d be one less problem with which to deal.

The facilities however, were lacking. There was a bathroom with a sink, but no shower. No kitchen to prepare food either.

The only thing they had here was a water cooler and an electric percolator. Everyone in the office drank their chicory laced coffee black, especially since there was no refrigeration available. There was one container of coffee in a cabinet along with some sugar packets. That was it.

One of them would have to chance going out in the morning to gather supplies, but that had to be cleared by Mister Solo as he was the agent in charge. Right now he was sound asleep in the chair beside the cot where Kuryakin was resting.

Kripke would leave it up to Solo to contact New York in the morning. That was his prerogative, and surely he had more information to offer to Mister Waverly.

The field office wasn’t exactly designed for a long haul. The machine guns hidden outside in the courtyard walls offered them more than enough defense from an attack, but any personnel leaving that safety put themselves at risk in this particular situation.

Nathaniel La Croix knew everything there was to know about the office and all he had to do was wait them out. They was no way of knowing if he’d contacted any other THRUSH cronies to help him.

He was most assuredly determined to get even with Solo and Kuryakin for screwing up the little operation he had going right under the noses of the U.N.C.L.E.


	17. Q is for Queen

Mardi Gras would be coming to an end in just a few days and Nathaniel La Croix was feeling his frustration at not being able to get at Solo and Kuryakin.

He’d become obsessed with killing them, but that didn’t make him lose his common sense. Revenge it was said, was a dish best served cold.

He needed a way to lure them out of the heavily protected field office. He knew they were there as his snitches on the street...his ‘little birds’ he called them told him, and thought naming them that quite clever.

They were merely children he’d bribe with candy and a few coins. He’d shown them photos of the two agents and it had been reported to him they’d been seen entering the gated courtyard late at night with another man after arriving by car.

That only confirmed his suspicions, there weren’t too many places they could go where there was the risk of innocents being put in danger. They were like rodents retreating to their little mouse hole, granted a well fortified hidey hole, but a mouse hole just the same.

A Chevy Corvair was now parked inside the courtyard, a vehicle Nate recognized as being from their motorpool.

He’d permitted one of his former colleagues to leave the next morning in order to gather supplies and food to see them through the waiting game. That he expected.

Nate knew he’d be out of his mind to attack the office, and even with help it would be suicide. The roof was an impossible approach as there were cameras and hidden guns there as well, just as with the courtyard.

Allowing Valmont to go out and return unscathed was rationalized by Nate was keeping Solo and Kuryakin somewhat healthy and in shape for him to beat them at their own game.

He couldn’t have them weak from hunger, as that would only diminish his victory over then. It was nothing to give them a few days to rest and eat before he called them out.

Once he killed them, the THRUSH Council would no doubt sit up and pay attention to him. Perhaps he’d even be offered a seat among them. Maybe he’d have Solo and Kuryakin’s heads pickled in formaldehyde and bring them with him as proof of his victory. The Hierarchy liked cold bloodedness.

La Croix practically hugged himself at that thought as he was perched on a balcony in a building across the street from the entrance to the gated entrance to the field office.

The best way to ferret them out was with a threat, not against Solo and Kuryakin, but against innocents. It would have to be be in a controlled situation, one where he knew they wouldn’t be able to get lost in a crowd.

During a parade wouldn’t work; too many variables, but with the Krewes soon gathering for the meeting of the courts...that would work.

It was an indoor ceremony at which Rex and the Queen of the Mardi Gras, would meet with Comus and his Queen, at the ball of the Mistick Krewe of Comus. They were the oldest Krewe in New Orleans and attracted many of the upper class. It was held in one of the bigger hotels in New Orleans as only the best would do for the genteel and rich of the city who attended the final event of the season.

It was also the largest ball of Mardi Gras and would be attended by hundreds of innocents, and snobbish ones at that.

Nate reasoned he could plant explosives throughout the venue and threaten to blow everyone to kingdom come if Solo and Kuryakin wouldn’t do as he demanded.

His obsession with them made him nearly giddy at the thought of that peacock Solo and the insufferable Russian being brought to their knees. He pictured them begging for mercy.

Nate would offer them none. The only thing he would give them ideally was a slow lingering death, but in reality he might not have the opportunity to do that. Killing them outright was his best course of action.

Agent Valmont left the office just before dawn, figuring that it would be a little safer moving out in the dark.  
  


As a precaution Napoleon positioned himself inside just by the gate as it opened. He aimed a carbine fitted with a night scope, hoping to get a shot at La Croix if he showed himself to kill Valmont.

The Section III agent wore a protective vest just in case, it was different from the flak jackets worn during World War II, this used new fibers that truly made it bullet proof.

The jackets worn by the military provided protection from ammunition fragments, but they were bulky and ineffective against most rifle and pistol fire.

Still the vest Valmont wore offered him no protection from a headshot...

Once he was off, the wrought iron gate was automatically closed and secured. Napoleon returned to the office and there he joined Pete Jennings watching the security monitors.

Illya wanted to join in as well but Solo ordered him to rest, reminding his partner of his own words about things ramping up. Napoleon needed Illya to be at top of his game, they all needed to be.  
  
Kripke was busy supervising Miss Georgia. Luckily the receptionist had gone home early, that at least left at least one less person to worry about in an already crowded office.

Agent Valmont finally returned with several grocery bags; he’d called ahead on his communicator to let them know he would be approaching soon and to be ready.

Again Napoleon waited for him with a carbine at the ready.

He and the others were relieved that nothing happened, though both Kuryakin and Solo knew that La Croix let Valmont come and go. He had bigger fish to fry and surely had a plan to draw those fish out out of their little pond.

The supplies included loaves Leidenheimer bread, more coffee, peanut butter and grape jelly, pastries, beignets, fresh fruits and a dozen bottles of pop that would have to be drunken warm.  
  
There was enough to last them for days, though the pastries and such might be a little stale.

The piece de resistance was a bag full of po’boy sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise, a thick layer of roast beef, wet with gravy, and topped with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles.

Not having a refrigerator was definitely a problem, so these would have to be eaten first. Refrigeration was something Napoleon would recommend to the Old Man to have installed in field offices, even if it were just a small unit.

The hot coffee, and sandwiches served as a big breakfast. The fruits, pastries, beignets and everything else would be lunch and dinner that day.

They were all were hungry, though Illya behaved himself and restrained from going for seconds as this food might have to last them for an undetermined amount of time.

Napoleon had reported the situation to Mister Waverly and he decided that it was time to send in some backup. The problem was, most agents were already out on assignment. The Old Man told Solo not to worry, as he would figure out something.

Napoleon mumbled to himself,”Easy for you to say.”

“Beg pardon Mister Solo, I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing sir, nothing at all.”

“Very well then. Keep me abreast of your situation. Waverly out.”

There was no guarantee that one of the agents could go out again for supplies and make it back alive.

Napoleon knew La Croix was watching and waiting, and his graciousness at letting Valmont get the supplies and safely return with them would be the first and last time anyone could leave.


	18. R is for Running of the Bulls

The UNCLE agent’s confinement went on for a few days, with another supply run having taken place again, blessedly without incident. It wasn’t luck, it was La Croix perhaps trying to lure them into a false sense of security so they might let down their guard.

There was no word from Waverly about backup and Napoleon thought it to be in their best interest not to pester the Old Man about it. He and Illya trusted they wouldn’t be let down. Kripke, Valmont and Jennings were another story.

They lacked experience and playing the waiting game was getting to them.

They’d never had to do a stakeout, or something similar to this situation and they had no patience for it. Tempers were running high.

The junior agents had the forethought to keep some extra clothing onhand along with shaving kits and toiletries so at least there wasn’t any excess body odor to deal with.

Miss Georgia was acting cool as a cucumber. They let her have limited movement to use the bathroom, and after a search of her purse they found nothing dangerous.

She had face powder, lipstick, a comb, a small perfume atomizer, (with real perfume) and a tin of talcum powder. Napoleon donated one of his clean white tee shirts for her to wear while she washed out her blouse and unmentionables. That was as close as he planned to get near to her; he felt absolutely no attraction towards her at this point, even though she tried flirting with him a few more times.

Solo and Kuryakin found themselves a bit on edge, not because of waiting but because they’d both run out of cigarettes. None of the Section III agents smoked, though Illya mumbled under his breath that if they ever made it into the field, they would take up smoking.

He knew it was a nasty habit and had tried to quit a few times. He’d learned to smoke before he was twelve; it was something one learned to do in order to look tough while trying to survive in a Moscow orphanage.

He paced the floor near the security monitors, keeping quiet but Napoleon watched as his partner’s jaw tightened.

Yes, missing cigarettes was bothersome and both of them had gone without them more than long enough when held prisoner by many’s the lunatic and survived.

This was different, they were in a secure UNCLE field office, yet one one traitorous man was keeping them here like rats in a trap.

“Napoleon, to hell with waiting. It is time we take the offensive.”

“Tovarisch, I’d love to but at this point we have no idea where the bastard could be. For all we know he’s in the building right across the street, or on a roof waiting to pick us off once we leave the safety of this place. Waverly hasn’t contacted us about backup, so we are literally stuck here between a rock and a hard place until the cavalry arrived.

“We can not stay here forever,” Illya hissed.

Napoleon’s communicator chirped, and looking at Illya, Solo crossed his fingers hoping it was the Old Man with good news.

“Solo here,” he quickly answered.

“Ahhh, good to hear your voice again.”

“La Croix,” Napoleon growled.”Where are you, you sniveling coward?”

“Sticks and stones, sticks and stones.”

Solo pointed to the communications panel, but Illya had already seated himself to do a trace on the signal. He twirled his index finger in the air signalling for Napoleon to keep him talking.

“In the flesh,” Nate said.” So are you and Kuryakin ready to come out and play?”

“I don’t think we like your sort of game, maybe we could play one of ours. How about hopscotch or jump rope? Ever try your hand at double dutch?”

“Don’t toy with me Solo. Here’s the deal, you and your little Commie friend will attend the ball of the Mistick Krewe of Comus in two days time.”

“You’re serious,” Napoleon laughed. “You think we’d just step out in public for you to pick us off one at a time?”

“Well that’s the rub isn’t? If you don’t attend the ball, then I will blow up everyone there. I have more than enough C-4 and and timers do the job.”

Solo paused, looking at his partner who gave him a thumbs up. La Croix was right across the street, most likely the second floor facing the entrance to the courtyard.

Napoleon waved his partner to follow him and while he kept Nate and distracted, they left the office, and made it to the gate. Darting across the narrow street, they entered the building where La Croix was holed up.

“How can I trust that you won’t just shoot us down the minute we step out onto the street?”

“Trust, yes Mister Solo. You’d have to trust that I would rather face you on a field of honor per se. Honor among thieves for lack of a better term.”

“Let me think about it. Out.” He didn’t want Nate to hear him as they got closer.

They moved up a single staircase with their guns drawn and Illya pointed to one of the doors on the second floor. That’s where La Croix was.

He held up one finger counting silently counting ‘one-two-three’ and together he and Napoleon smashed through the door.

La Croix was startled of course and wasn’t able to get off a shot from his carbine as Kuryakin shot him in the ass, not with a bullet but a sleep dart. It was sort of a payback.

Nate’s eyes went wide before they rolled back and he sank to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

The partners looked at each other, breathing a sigh of relief. It was over, at least for now.

Illya’s communicator went off. “Kuryakin here.”

“Darling are you and Napoleon all right,” it was April.

“We are now,” Napoleon called out to her. “Where are you?”

“We’re not far from the field office.”

“We as in you and Mark?” Illya asked.

“Of course.”

“Mister Waverly asked us to come help you blokes out of a bit of a jam,” Mark said.

“Well it’s nice to have you here but our jam has been officially taken care of,” Napoleon said.

“That’s a relief as we’re stuck in some sort of event and can’t even move down the street. We have four agents with us but we were separated, they’re somewhere farther back on the street.”

“A parade?” Illya asked. “They do stop periodically to let people cross the road.”

“It’s not a parade. The only thing I can equate it to is the running of the bulls in Pamplona. There’s women on roller skates and skateboards chasing everyone down the street. They’re wearing helmets with plastic horns but not like Vikings, they make them like bull’s heads and... and they’re pretending to gore anyone who isn’t outrunning them. They may not be as dangerous as the real bulls in Spain, but they don’t seem to be taking pity on anyone. I had no idea Mardi Gras was like this.”

“It isn’t as far as I know. Must be something new,” Napoleon said. “Meet us at the field office as soon as you’re able.”

“Will do darling. Dancer out.”

After tying up Nate, Napoleon and Illya did a search of the room and found a small amount of C-4 and one timer. That didn’t sit well with either of them.

Kripke was contacted and after informing him Nate had been captured, Illya asked him to check the armory inventory of C-4 and timers. It didn’t take long to get an answer.

“Mister Kuryakin, all the explosive putty is gone along with six timers.”

Illya’s jaw tightened.”And when was the last time you did an inventory check of your armory?”

“It wasn’t that long ago sir.”

“How long was ...not that long ago?” Illya asked, sotto voce.

“Ummm, last month.”

“We will discuss this further. Mister Solo and I will be returning with La Croix, in the meantime, clean up the place as April Dancer, Mark Slate and four other agents will be arriving soon. Kuryakin out.”

He was sure Agent Kripke copped onto his displeasure. No need to give him one of his blue-eyed stares as it was message received, loud and cleared.

“So his threat to blow up the ball of the Mistick Krewe of Comus was a genuine threat,” Napoleon said.

“And it might still be if he has already set the explosives and timers.” Illya nodded.


	19. S is for Stompers

Napoleon and Illya returned to the office with their unconscious prisoner. La Croix was handcuffed to a chair and kept in the main room, with his mouth gagged and just to satisfy Kuryakin, he was blindfolded.  
  
Nate would of course know where he was once he awoke, but some sensory deprivation would keep him on edge. No one was to speak to him, nor were he and Miss Georgia permitted to be in contact with each other.  
  
Napoleon sat in a chair at the communications panel, and after flicking a few switches, he contacted New York. After all, Waverly asked to be apprised of the situation. It wasn’t going to be all good news.

“Yes Mister Solo, your report please?”

“Nathaniel La Croix has been captured alive. We now have we he and Georgia Couture in our custody.”   
  
“I take it Dancer, Slate and the others arrived in time to help you out.”  
“Not exactly sir, Miss Dancer let us know that she and her team were caught in traffic due to the continued Mardi Gras festivities. I expect them here momentarily. It was Mister Kuryakin and I who captured Nate, sir.”  
  
Napoleon could envision the Old Man’s bushy eyebrows raising in mild surprise given is two best agents were in dire straights not long ago and asking for assistance.  
“Well done. I’m sure your explanation of how you both managed that will be in your report when you return to New York.”  
  
“Yes sir, but we can’t leave just yet. Apparently our former agent set bombs to detonate at the final event of Mardi Gras at the Comus Mystic ball. It sort of signals the end of Mardi Gras.”  
“Dare I say a bomb going off at such an event would definitely bring an explosive end to the festivities,” Waverly’s attempt at mild humor fell flat.  
  
“Well then,” ahem. “I expect you to get moving young man and neutralize the threat. Contact me when it’s done. In the meantime you can send the prisoners with the backup agents to New York. Have Slate and Miss Dancer remain to assist you. Mister Kittredge will not be arriving just yet, so until he does I will expect you all to hold down the fort, as it were. Waverly out.”

At last April, Mark and the other agents arrival to them felt anticlimactic, and in spite of being welcomed with open arms they realized there was more work to be done after all.  
While Napoleon filled Dancer in on the situation, Illya and Mark took over the interrogation of La Croix once he regained consciousness.  
  
He wasn’t expected to be forthcoming with any helpful information as to where he’d hidden the explosive devices, or where the location of this Comus ball would be held for that matter. Apparently it was a well kept secret, guarded until the eleventh hour by the Rex and Comus Krewes.

It was indeed a fancy costumed ball, by invitation only, held by and for the upper crust elite of the city. Finding out its location would be the next major next task at hand.

They had to get to the venue before the event took place in order to neutralized the bombs and not create a large scale panic.

Napoleon permitted Kripke, Valmont and Jennings to head home for a bit of a rest and cleanup. They’d be due back just before Georgia and Nate were being taken away permanently. Even though Napoleon made some promised to Georgia if she cooperated, it would be out of his hands. Most likely it would be Tartarus for both she and Nate. That final decision remained in the hands of Waverly and the heads of Section I and the heads of Security.

The receptionist whose name was Valerie Kingston returned to duty in the meantime. As luck would have it, she knew the location of the Comus ball since she was connected to one of the oldest families in New Orleans. Not that she received an invitation, but her parents had. They were still debating to attend or not.

When she overheard Napoleon and April discussing how to find out where it was, she chimed in with the information.

“Mister Solo sir, the Mystic ball is held at the Hotel Monteleone right over on Royal Street right here in the French Quarter. You could walk to it from here as it’s that close. The hotel has a huge ballroom, around 6,200 square feet as I recall.”

“Valerie, remind me to put in a raise for you. You’ve made my day,” he smiled just before he kissed the back of her hand with a slight bow.

“Well there is some bad news,” she cringed. “No one can get into the ball without an invitation. Since everything’s so hush-hush they even have tight controls on who can come and go into the hotel.  
I think that comes from the past when one of the Rex kings was murdered, though that was a pretty long time ago. Since then everything about the ball has become top secret to a privileged few. So you can’t just walk into the Monteleone. You have to have an invitation to the ball or a reservation to stay at the hotel. Those invitations to the Mystic ball of Comus are treated like gold, as a matter of fact the ink used has gold in it. They’re highly collectable. No one can get into the hotel much less the ball without one, and they check for forgeries at the door.”

Napoleon was quite familiar with the Monteleone as he and Illya had been there for a courier drop last year. It was purported to be haunted and they found out first hand the rumors were quite true.

For once they hadn’t been sent on a courier run that put them in one of the many cemeteries located throughout the city. They’d had their fill of those along with their run ins with voodoo magic, spirits and zombies. Their return to Cemetery No. 2 this time around was more than enough for them.

Last year’s mission had them picking up a pouch in the Monteleone; it was an absolute magnificent hotel that dated back to 1886 that had one of the richest histories of all the hotels in the area, catering to the likes of Tennessee Williams, Faulkner and Hemingway. They could often be seen at the Monteleone Carousel Bar that literally revolved every fifteen minutes and slow-spun its drinkers past a bank of windows facing Royal Street.*

Then of course there were the resident ghosts, people who loved the hotel so much that they never  
wanted to check out in this world or the next.

This time however around spirits were farthest from Napoleon’s mind. Being able to search the rather large hotel as well as the ballroom was going to take time, and they would probably have to cut it close.

It would stand to reason the ballroom would be his target as that’s where he would get more ‘bang for his buck.’ There would be a large number of innocents in attendance.

He was planning to blow them to smithereens regardless of Solo and Kuryakin’s presence or not. That became abundantly clear.

The only words Nate kept saying with a snide demeanor during his interrogation were to a children’s rhyme.

‘Tick-tock, tick-tock, the mouse ran up clock, the clock struck one and down he’d come, hickory dickory dock.’

Illya pulled his partner aside, as the rhyme suddenly struck him as being possible clues.

“Remember the large grandfather clock in the lobby at the Monteleone?”

“How could I forget it? That’s were we saw a ghost, correction several ghosts.”*

“Napoleon, what if he has hidden explosives in the clock, and set them to go off at one in the morning? The ball no doubt would still be going strong.”

Solo sat for a moment, his fingers laced together with only the index straightened out, and being tapped against his lips.

“Hey it’s worth a shot tovarisch.”

Solo and Dancer changed into more sophisticated clothing, and strolled over to the Monteleone. It was easier said than done as the sidewalks were again crowded, this time onlookers were applauding a group of male dancers dressed in matching blue shorts and red satin jackets as they paraded along the street;

Someone called them 'stompers' because they were stomping along, doing choreographed dance moves to a jazz band that led the way.

The men shouted out the words “Oh when the saints O when the Saints (when the saints) Go marching in (marching in) Now, when the Saints go marching in (marching in)Yes, I want to be in that number, when the Saints go marching in.”

There was a trumpet solo and the crowds went wild, strutting along with the stompers; women raised their parasols in time as they strutted along with the lively brass band.

“I had no idea Mardi Gras was like this,” April said. She was clinging to Solo’s arm to keep from being separated from him.

“Honey, I’ve never seen this before and I’ve been here for Mardi Gras a number of times. I guess things are changing.”

Napoleon and April arrived at the hotel and were immediately questioned by a couple of burly bald-headed security guards as soon as they walked through the entrance.

“We’re here to register as guests. The Missus and I will be attending the ball.” Napoleon put on a southern drawl.

April gazed at the opulence of the lobby, and couldn’t help but marvel at the decor, the floors were of polished marble and the ceilings at least twelve feet high, were trimmed with intricate moldings, and recessed panels that were ornately painted. White fluted Ionic columns trimmed in gold led one’s eyes to several immense crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling near the front desk, which was so long that it spanned the width of the room.

Inviting looking brown leather chairs and sofas, some with crushed red velvet, were set about the lobby and looked to be somewhat antebellum in style, recalling a bygone era.

Just before they neared the desk, April spotted the dark oversized antique grandfather clock. It came to life with its chimes sounding right on the hour.

“Is that the one?” She whispered.

Napoleon simply nodded. He gave a quick glance back, taking note that the famed ghost of the clockmaker seen working on his clock day or night hadn’t made his appearance. That seemed odd, but no pun intended, the ghost was known for appearing like clockwork.

The head clerk looked them over questioningly, and consulted the other clerks working with him, buzzing together amongst themselves.

“I am sorry sir, but you must be mistaken. All our guests have checked or already confirmed their reservations, especially those who’ll be attending the festivities in the ballroom. Perhaps your reservation was at another hotel...I can call ahead for you to check for you.”

“No my good man, you will not call ahead. Our reservation was made for here for this very night.”

“As I said sir, all our guests have either checked in or confirmed their reservations.”

“This is simply unsatisfactory,” Napoleon snapped back.”I demand to see your manager.

“I’m sorry you feel that way sir. We have no reservations pending, nor do we have any vacancies. The manager is busy with preparations in the ballroom and expressly instructed that he not be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“Well I nevah!” April put on heavy southern accent as she pretended to cry into a lace hankie. “This is the way you treat your clientele?”

“Now look what you’ve done sir, “Napoleon said.”You have upset my lovely wife and with her being in a ‘delicate condition.’ Preposterous. I demand to speak to your manager!”

The desk clerk raised his hand, snapping his fingers in rapid succession.

“Mister Beauregard, if you would be so kind as to escourt the gentleman and the lady from the hotel.”

Solo and Dancer knew they’d hit a brick wall and would have to figure out another way to search the premises. They followed the head of security and exited the hotel, they were wished a lovely day and told to enjoy the last of the Mardi Gras festivities.


	20. T is for Tuba

Napoleon and April headed back to the field office though they slowed their pace momentarily as another brass band marched past in the street.

It was such an incongruous sight as the tuba player wasn't much bigger than his instrument. Yet he could really play that thing!

“Darling this is marvelous!” April raised her voice to be heard over the music.

“Once we solve our current dilemma, I’ll show you around,” Napoleon winked.  
  
That simply anazed her; he had such confidence in his ability to get thr job done. It wasn't cockiness or bravado. It was his eternal optimism that made him look danger straight in the eye and renained determined to win.

It didn’t take long to return to the field office and there the bad news was given to Illya and Mark.

“No tickee, no washee mates?” Mark asked. “Could we masquerade as the help? Not like we haven’t taken the place of waiter and waitress staff before.”

Valerie jumped into the conversation. “They watch the help like hawks. No one they don’t know is let in to work. If there’s substitutions the authorization has to come from the hotel manager. They only use their own staff.”

“Oy, we could always pull a fire alarm,” Mark grinned.

“That I think would be a court of last resort even if we can get in to pull said fire alarm,” Napoleon said.

It’s not like they really couldn’t get into the hotel, Illya was a masterful second story man and could break into any building, the problem was once he was in there, how could he search without being spotted, or any of them for that matter.

Security was heavy and they knew the faces of everyone working there.

“Ahhh, but you recall it is a masked ball is it not,” Kuryakin said.

“Well you can get in, climbing about in tuxes but I don’t think I could manage it in a ball gown,” April said.

“Excuse me for interrupting again,”Valerie said. “But I can get two of you in without any problem.”

All heads turned, looking at the woman.

“I spoke to my parents and my mother isn’t up to attending this year; my father wouldn’t think of going without her but then she suggested he ask me to go with him. I told him I had to work overtime at the Times-Picayune due to Mardi Gras...he thinks I work for the newspaper. Anyway. I asked him for their tickets to give to my boss and his wife as it might earn me some brownie points for a raise.”

“When can you get them Valerie?” Solo asked.

“I picked them up while you were gone.” She held up two white cards embossed in gold lettering and intricate scrollwork detailing the outer edges.

“You’re definitely getting that raise,” Napoleon accepted the tickets from her.

“That covers only two,”Illya said,” now as to the rest of us?”

“I’m thinking tovarisch, I’m thinking,” Napoleon nodded.

The next evening Solo and Dancer were dressed to the nines. He in his black tuxedo had borrowed Illya’s black turban and black face mask. That gave him enough anonymity to pass the scrutiny from any of the guards who might have seen he and April on their previous visit to the Monteleone.

April was dressed in a stunning yellow gown, not bright yellow like her favorite rain slicker, it was softer more like a buttercup yellow.

The dress had multiple layers of feather-light satin organza The top two layers were printed with gold leaf filigree in a pattern accented with crystals. The sleeves were puffy, with the top of the dress just off the shoulder. Her mask was white, covered in crystals that matched her gown. In her hair she wore a glistening diadem.

When everyone saw her, they were speechless.  
  
“April, you are stunning,” Napoleon bowed to her.

“Why thank you sir.” In return she gave a slight curtsey. He offered her his arm and they were off to the ball.  
  
“Good luck, and have her home by curfew,” Mark called out.

“Yes dad,’ Napoleon saluted as they disappeared out of the gate to the street.  
  


Arriving at the hotel, they made it past security without a hitch. They casually strolled towards the ballroom, glancing at the grandfather clock as they past it by.

Not putting all their eggs in one basket, the duo would do a discreet inspection of the ballroom, just in case Illya’s theory was off, though Solo was confident it wasn’t.

At first they blended in with the elegantly dressed elite, and Napoleon escorted April on the dance floor as a waltz was announced.

For a moment Dancer felt like the belle of the ball as she and Napoleon spun slowly around the floor. She looked as if she were floating on air. Finally they stopped and walked over to inspect the refreshments.

Napoleon retrieved glasses of champagne punch for the two of them as they began to casually walk the perimeter of the ball room.

The bar was clear as was a dais that was apparently the focus of the room. So far there was nothing, not by the main entrance nor the French doors that opened to an exterior enclosed garden.

Outside rose bushes and topiaries were laced with tiny twinkling white lights, and in the center of it all was a magnificent three tiered fountain with water pouring from the mouths of dolphins.

There was a fanfare plated by the band, drawing the agent’s attention. The King of Rex and his Queen consort had arrived, and following them into the ballroom were for the bal masque were the King and Queen of Comus. These organizations were the most prestigious in the carnival hierarchy. The official Meeting of the Courts was now in session.

All Carnival features great and small came together in this lavish meeting of the two courts. In the culminating moments of Mardi Gras, Rex his Queen, Comus, and his Queen, stood side-by-side on the dais and acknowledged their applauding subjects.

The guests from the Krewe of Rex arrived, filling the room with the sparkling of rhinestones, paillettes and brilliants that enhanced the attire of many of the masked guests.

It was not only the gowns and the crowns, but the scepters and the goblet of Comus that enthralled all assembled there. It was also the four individuals, who were chosen to reign during the conclusion of Carnival and the glorious gallivanting of the Rex and Comus ball on today, Shrove Tuesday

Embellishments went from the sweetheart neckline to the double layer, scalloped train, hand-beaded lace accented with Swarovski crystals and rhinestones. The bright silver of the chiffon underlayer was the backdrop for rhinestones, margaritas, lochrosens and silver bugle beads that followed the curvature of the lace's scallop design. Both queens' ensembles were completed with their organizations' collar, mantle, crown, scepter and royal jewels.

It was a sight to behold, but Solo and Dancer were not really paying attention to it all especially as the speech making began. They concentrated on continuing scouring the ballroom, but still had no luck.

Napoleon looked at his wristwatch. “Okay April, time to head out.”

Together they gracefully left the ballroom, and right on time the diversion began.

Illya and Mark had appeared at the entrance to the hotel, and appearing in disheveled tuxedos, they began arguing with the security guards.

“Heeeey, we haf invitations, my gooood man. Hic.” Illya slurred. He began slapping his pockets as if searching them. “They here somewheres…”

Napoleon smiled, watching the scene unfold as his Russian partner could always play a good drunk.

“Oy mates come on now. Give a couple of blokes a bit of a break? There’s some nice birds in there weeeeed like ta meet. If ya know what I mean.”

“An liquor, do not forget tha liquor,” Illya said. He wobbled as he spoke and one of the guards grabbed hold of his arm in an attempt to steady him, as they prepared to escort he and Mark from the hotel.

“Leggo you Cossack!” Illya took a swing and connected right with the man’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.

Immediately every security guard swarmed down on the scene.

That was Napoleon’s cue to open the door to the front of the grandfather clock.  
  


“Bingo,” he whispered. Inside were the missing blocks of C-4; they were wired with individual timers.and the digital displays were counting down the minutes and seconds.

There was even less time than they’d counted on, and La Croix had used every possible color combination to connect his devices.

The din with Illya and Mark was dying down; Napoleon needed more time.

“April go help them, I need you to stall the guards.”

“Will do.” She hurried over to the hotel entrance.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please unhand them. Don’t you know who they are?”

“They’re a pair of drunkards Ma’am, trying to crash the ball.”

“Firstly, I’m too young to be called Ma’am; you have insulted me sir and I’ll not stand for it.”

“My apologies Miss…”

“Charlotte Devereaux of the Shreveport Devereaux’s. These gentlemen here are Lord Francis Binghamton, a delegate to the British Mission in Atlanta and the other gentleman who you were manhandling is the...son of the...umm, Ukrainian Ambassador to the United Nations! Do you want to create an international incident or wouldn’t it be better for you to merely call a taxi for them and quietly send them on their way.”

April suddenly snapped open a white fan, and waved it in front of herself. “I do declare, I think all this excitement is too much for me. I feel faint.”

She acted with all the subtlety of Mary Pickford as she pretended to swoon, thinking the situation called for a little drama.

Napoleon studied the wiring, hoping that April could buy him enough time. He wished Illya were at his side right now as he had an uncanny knack for these sort of things.

“Tick-Tock Tick-Tock Tick-Tock” The clock’s pendulum continued to hypnotically swing back and forth, back and forth...

Taking a small pair of nippers from his pocket, and isolating the first wire between his fingers, he touched the cutter to it. Hesitating for a split in a moment of doubt...was it the red wire or the black one.

He chose the black one before closing his eyes andwhispered a prayer to himself and …

“Snip.”

Breathing a sigh of relief he muttered,”One down, four to go.”

He followed the same procedure with the next three, but the last one was ticking away with less than two minutes left before it detonated.

They’d never get everyone out in time and with the amount of C-4 La Croix used, it would take down the entire hotel.

The remaining device going off would trigger the rest of the explosives, as there was no time to move to a safe distance, The individual detonators were acting a a kind of fail safe for each other should any of them malfunction.

A bead of sweat had run down his forehead and now was at the tip of his nose as closed the nippers on the final wire.

“Snip.”

Napoleon exhaled a long sigh of relief. Looking around for something to use, he grabbed a nearby planter, and dumped the contents into another larger potted plant and carefully placed the bricks of the grey C-4 and the timers into it.

He removed his tuxedo jacket, and threw it over the arm with which he was holding the planter. He turned and came face to face with the ghost of the clockmaker who smiled at him, and tipping his hat, the old man faded until he was no longer visible.*

Heading to the door, he called out to April.

“May I be of some assistance Miss Devereaux?”

“Oh yes please, I think all the excitement here has been too much for me. May we leave darling?”

“Of course my dear, I think we can help your friends get home safely as well.”

“Thanks you,” Illya slurred. He glanced at his wristwatch seeing it was two minutes past one in the morning.

There was a barely perceptible smile on his lips as he suddenly straightened up, appearing to the guards that he was as sober as a judge...

  
  
* ref to The ABC Affair II - chapter N is for New Orleans


	21. U is for Unicorn

The next morning Napoleon, Illya, April and Mark brought some chairs out into the courtyard of the field office. It was sunny and warm and the streets were quiet now that Mardi Gras was officially over, still in bars all over the city people were still celebrating. The police were being kept busy, needless to say.

“This is nice,”Napoleon said. “Shame we don’t have anything like it back in New York.

“Well there is Central Park,” Mark said.

“Here they have City Park which is actually larger than Central Park,”Illya said. He raised his arms above his head in a long stretch. He still needed to sit on a soft pillow because of his stitched up derriere, but soon it wouldn’t be necessary.

“And don’t forget the riverboat Natchez,” Napoleon said. “It was pretty amazing even though we weren’t on it very long.”

“Well New York has the Staten Island Ferry,” Mark said.

“Still no comparison,” Napoleon smiled.

“Wow, parks, riverboats, parades, floats, balls...sound like you really had the grand tour of the city,” April laughed. She was holding a mint julep in her hand.

“And you were quite the belle of the ball,” Solo nodded.

“Why thank you, shame I can’t keep that dress. Though really, when would I get a chance to wear it again. It was more suitable to this place.”

“I for one will be glad to get back to New York, Illya said.”Though we have taken quite a few sights here including a rather...creepy cemetery, I for one will be glad to get back home. I have some experiments in my lab that have left unattended.”

“Illya darling, you need to get out more and enjoy life. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“April, who is Jack?” Illya pretended not to be familiar with the proverb.

“You’re pulling my leg?” She stared at him.

“Miss Dancer, I am nowhere near you so how might I be pulling your leg?”

“Illya!”

He began to laugh, and did she as well when she realized he was joking.

“April, using the phrase ‘all work and no play makes...Illya a dull boy; are you suggesting that that without time off from work, I will become both bored and boring?”

“Luv, I think you’ve put your foot in your mouth on that one,” Mark laughed.

“I suppose I have. Sorry darling.”

“No apology necessary,”Illya smiled. “I do not mind remaining here a little longer as there are more sights to see and restaurants to explore.”

“Here it comes,” Napoleon laughed, pointing at his partner. “I knew food would eventually become part of the conversation.”

“Yes speaking of which, I am hungry. Would anyone care to join me for lunch?”

Napoleon, April and Mark responded at the same time.”You’re always hungry!”

“Yes, I am. Is there a problem with that. Are none of you hungry as well?”

“Well, darling, I suppose we are. Anyplace you’d suggest?

“There is a wonderful place off the beaten track owned by a woman named Fanchon DuBois. She serves the most marvelous bouillabaisse.”

“Really? What’s the name of the place?” April asked.

Napoleon and Illya suddenly looked at each other, realizing they never bothered to check the name of the place.

“Ummm, we don’t know,” Solo blushed.

“Well then how can you blokes find it?” Mark asked

“Trust us, we know exactly where it is.”

Illya spoke to Kripke in whispers and for some reason he picked up the unicorn mask he’d worn previously, it was simply left to one side until now.

This time the agents took a taxi to the place and when they saw the name on the hand painted marquis over the door, Solo, Dancer and Slate all laughed. Illya wasn’t surprised as he’d asked Kripke about the place and he knew the name.

It read, “The Purple Unicorn. Great music and food!”

As they walked inside, they were greeting by Frachon and her son Henri.

“Bonjour Madame DuBois,” Illya smiled as he gave a little bow.

“Ah Monsieur Illya you survived my medical attention I see!”

Napoleon greeted her with a click of the heels and kiss to the back of her hand. “We returned to thank you for your help, and we’ve brought friends to sample your cooking. This is April and Mark.”

After all the greetings were done Illya produced something he’d hidden behind his back. It was the unicorn mask he’d worn to disguise himself during Mardi Gras.

“A small gift for you, to grace your premises. Et voila!”

“C’est magnifique, merci merci beaucoup!”

“Tell me Frachon, how did you come up with the name ‘The Purple Unicorn?”

“Oh I have my son Henri to thank for that. It was the name of his favorite book when he was a bebe. I thought it would be different.”

“Interesting,” Napoleon and the others eyed each other but none had the heart to tell her of the ‘Purple Unicorn’ club in New York… not that it really mattered.


	22. V is for Voodoo

Post Mardi Gras was a bit of mess, with literally tons of debris including plastic beads, papers, masks, bottles and so much more scattered everywhere that all needed to be swept up.

Everywhere you went you could see multiple city workers in overalls sweeping human detritus into shovels and depositing it into large rolling trash bins. It would take them days if not a week to clear it all.

Still that didn’t detract from the beauty of those streets and as one person happened to mention, it was always Mardi Gras in New Orleans, as there were those who were still partying in the many bars or in their hotels. Still the feelings that Mardi Gras evoked would eventually ebb and flow just like the tide.

It was now the Lenten season, a time of fasting and avoiding certain foods...at least in the Catholic church.

Fasting was mandatory on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday; all the other days, you are not required to fast. Catholics, which most of the popluation of New Orleans was, meant they were required to abstain from eating meat on ash Wednesday and Fridays during Lent.  
  
Napoleon, though raised Catholic, wasn't always the most devout when it came to giving things up for Lent, especially since it lasted for forty days.

He and Illya took turns showing Mark and April around as it was their first time here. They had time to kill while waiting for Kit Kittredge to arrive. Everything seemed calm enough compared to the excitement of the past few days.

The senior agents had a brief conference with Mister Waverly about the current staff of the field office needing some further training, with the exception of Valerie, but in the end the Old Man decided it would be Kit’s call as to what would be done.  
  
The fleur de lys symbol was everywhere, depicted in artwork, repeated on wallpaper, painted on trash cans. It was easy to discern the influence of the French and understandable that New Orleans chose that very symbol to represent their city.

April was carrying a little guide book with her and made note, “Fun fact, in the late 1800s, the King of Carnival chose the Mardi Gras color scheme because they were the colors of a visiting Russian Grand Duke by the name of Alexis Alexis Alexandrovich Romanoff. Well that’s quite the mouthful! Anyway, the colors do stand for something. Green is for faith. Purple is for justice. Gold is for power.”

She watched as Illya squared his shoulders, looking rather proud. Little did she know that he was related to the Romanoff’s on his mother’s side. It was a secret he’d kept all his life, especially growing up in the Soviet Union where any relation to aristocracy and nobility were treated with disdain and often violence. His grandfather Alexander Sergeyevich Kuryakin was granted the title of Count by the Tsar before the revolution, and the title should have passed down from father to son.

The Bolshevik revolution changed all that...

His grandfather died in a gulag, and his father never used the designation of Count. Illya’s older brother Dimitry would have held the title one day had he survived the war.

By rights, the title now technically fell to Illya as he was as the only living son of Nicholaí Alexandrovich Kuryakin, but it meant nothing to him other than being a thing to be kept secret. His entire family was lost during the war...so what did it matter if he were a member of the nobility and related to royalty.

His demeanor changed and Kuryakin suddenly seemed rather melancholy.

“Illya are you all right?”

“Yes I am fine. Perhaps I am a bit tired.”

“We can stop if you want. I mean we’ve been cramming a lot of sights into a few days.”

“No no, we can go on. Perhaps we could stop for some beignets?”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” she smiled, though she was afraid she’d gained way too much weight eating the incredible food they served here.

Napoleon and Mark appeared, joining them.

“Who is minding the office?” Illya asked.

“Kripke is in charge for a few hours. I think he can handle it. It’s pretty quiet now, and he said other than during Mardi Gras, that’s pretty much the way it is most of the time.

“Should we not be concerned about THRUSH? Perhaps some sort of retaliation?" Illya asked..

“For the moment, no. We destroyed the satrapy, and all its members are in custody. Oh speaking of that, Cassius Pride has been transferred to the custody of UNCLE as well. He’ll be joining Nate and Georgia in Tartarus.”

“Brrrrrr,” April rubbed her arms. That’s a chilly thought. I’ve heard about the place but I’ve never been there.

“We have,” Illya said,”and I will guarantee it is one place where we will never give you a grand tour. There is nothing to see but snow, ice and more snow. Wildlife consists of penguins, whales. seals, albatrosses, other seabirds and a range of invertebrates you may have not heard of such as krill, which form the basis of the Antarctic food chain. Did you know that eight species of penguins inhabit Antarctica and its offshore islands…”

“Illya?” Napoleon interrupted.

“Yes?”

“Enough with the lectures for now, please?”

“Oh sorry. I did it again?”

“Yes you did,” Napoleon clapped his partner on the back with a chuckle. Kuryakin was an endless source of knowledge because of his eidetic memory, but sometimes it could be just a bit too much.

The four agents wandered along, stopping for beignets. It was easy to find where they were sold as all one had to do was follow the trails of powdered sugar on the nearly empty sidewalks. Such tracking would have been impossible during Mardi Gras.

Now that it was quiet the four of them really had the opportunity to admire the colorful buildings that lined every street they walked along.

Each of them was painted a different color, and from their wrought iron railings hung baskets of ferns. One in particular stood out as it was rather Christmassy looking. The building was bright red with its louvered shutters painted green. It was like looking at a picture postcard.

  
  


Many of the hand rails were still wrapped with Mardi Gras beads.

“Oh look darlings!” April pointed to a shop.”Let’s go there.”

The sign above the door read, ‘Authentic Witchcraft and Hoodoo Shop!’

  
  


  
  


“I read that some cultural beliefs and spiritual practices made their way to New Orleans from Western Africa. The most well known practice is voodoo. Marie Laveau, an infamous voodoo practitioner, is responsible for bringing voodoo to the forefront of New Orleans culture in the 1800s, and she's actually buried here right in New Orleans!"

“I think we’ll pass on that,” Napoleon tried to hide his distaste. He’d never told April about his experience of being the victim of a practitioner of voodoo and the doll used against him. * That embarrassment was best left unsaid.

“Yes it is all a bit of commercialized nonsense to prey upon tourists,” Illya lied while eyeing his partner’s discomfort.

He looked at his wristwatch; it was too early for lunch or dinner. Too early to relieve Kripke and the others back at the office.

Napoleon saw his partner checking his watch. “Let’s go find a bar with some Dixieland Jazz and good alcohol.”

“Mate, you read my mind on the drinks that is. I don’t mind jazz but I don’t love it either, “ Mark finally spoke up.

Illya looked at him as if he had two heads. “You do not like jazz?”

“Don’t be so horrified guv, but I just don’t get it. Seems just like a jumble of notes that I can’t follow. Now give me a good rock and roll band with the Mersey Beat any day.”

“Let me explain Dixieland Jazz to you Mark. You see there are a few characteristics that give it its sound and rhythmic feel. Most Dixieland music has a two-beat feel where the musicians tend to feel the rhythm as ‘ONE, two, ONE, two’ rather than ‘ONE, two, three, four, ONE, two, three, four.’ You understand?”

Napoleon and April watched in amusement as their partners had a rather animated music discussion with a lot of hand gestures.”

“Kids,” Napoleon said. “Can’t take them anywhere.”

April insisted upon going into the Voodoo store on her own, just for fun; she was surprised at all the bizarre things for sale there. There were figurines, ointments, sachet powders, spell kits, incense, resin, herbs, beads, amulets, prayer cards and icons, and of course voodoo dolls.

The primitive looking dolls, were all different and hand sewn, and she picked one up that looked like a ginger bread man.

“How much are these?”

A woman dressed in a flowing black skirt, and white peasant top, on her head was a bright yellow scarf looking almost like a turban. Around her neck were long strands of beads and strings with talismans. Even her wrists were adorned by thick wooden bangles, all with symbols painted on them.

“For you ma cherie, une dollar. I give you a pamphlet on ‘ow to use it.” She had a very heavy accent. “You have a lover who do you wrong maybe?”

“No not at all,” April dug a dollar bill from her purse and paid. The woman took it, but also grabbed her hand and looked at her palm.

“Ahhh, I see you live a very dangerous life ma cherie. The doll will ‘elp you I think.”

April didn’t quite know what to say, other than thank you.

The doll and the pamphlet were put in a paper sack.

“Ere, I give you these to start out with the doll. She tossed a couple of long hat pins in the bag as well.   
  
_"Bon chance ma cherie_."

April smiled to herself as she’d save using her little purchase if a certain platinum blonde showed her face. She wasn’t sure a voodoo doll would really work, as Illya had said it was just a bunch of nonsense. Heck, it was worth the try, and it would be fun seeing the woman squirm just a little if it did work after all.

  
Angelique had an uncanny ability to appear wherever Napoleon Solo was, most often post mission. She wouldn’t be surprised if the blonde bitch were here right now even before the satrapy was destroyed and the traitors unmasked.

There was always the distinct possibility that she was somehow involved in the downfall of this Cassius Pride, La Croix and the woman they called Miss Georgia. She wasn't exacly loyal to THRUSH, she was loyal to herself. What was to say she might want New Orleans as her territory?

April would have to discuss that little tidbit with Kittredge when he finally arrived.

She returned to the others who had just bought a bagful of pralines along with more beignets, which they immediately offered to her.

“I’m going to lose my girlish figure if I keep eating all these treats.

“Nothing wrong with a woman who’s a little zaftig,” Napoleon smiled.

“What in heaven’s name is that?” She asked.”I’ve never heard that word before.”

“That’s because you haven’t been in New York City long enough, eventually you’ll hear it from someone, especially if you go to Katz’s deli,” Napoleon said.

April huffed,”You still haven’t answered my question.”

Illya just swallowed a bit of a praline, jiggling his index finger to indicate he’d answer her.

“It comes from the Yiddish word zaftik, which means juicy or succulent and which in turn derives from zaft, meaning juice" or sap. It now has a contemporary use as it can be applied to a woman who is...a bit chubby, but it is meant in a most affectionate way.”

“Me chubby,” she quickly took offense. “I’ll have you know that I work very hard at keeping in good shape.”

“And it shows luv,” Mark intervened before April went off on them.

“No one said you were chubby,” Napoleon gave his partner the stink eye.”Illya was merely giving you the definition and usage of zaftig...you know what, just forget the word was ever used. You are a very, very attractive woman April and we all know it."

Illya merely shrugged it all off and started down the sidewalk. He turned to the others, waving them on.

“I think it best we find that bar; there is a storm coming.”

“What storm?” Mark looked up at the bright blue sky. The sun was shining and there were a few wisps of fluffy white clouds.

“Trust me,” Napoleon said.” When Illya says a storm is coming it’s best to listen to him.”

He leaned over, whispering to Kuryakin. “Is it really going to storm or are you just saying that to change the topic.”

“There is something coming,” the Russian deadpanned. “I can feel it in my bones…”

Napoleon covered his face with his hand, shaking his head. Seems like they just couldn’t catch a break here in the Big Easy...

  
  
  


* ref “That Voodoo that You Do So well”


	23. W is for While Linen Nights

While commonly referred to as a season of events, Mardi Gras was actually only one day. The words Mardi Gras translated from the French meant ‘Fat Tuesday, or sometimes referred to as Shrove Tuesday.” Napoleon said.

“Yes it grew out of Shrovetide which is an English term, meaning the last day before the period called Lent. Shrove means to confess or be absolved of sin, “ Kuryakin added.

“The floats, parades and, to put it mildly, partying as well as debauchery that lead up to Mardi Gras is actually called Carnival. The day after Fat Tuesday, all the nonsense is supposed to stop; there’s forty days to try to remember what one did and ask forgiveness for it on Ash Wednesday,” Napoleon snickered.

“I think forty days are not long enough for you my friend,” Illya laughed.

“And look who’s calling the kettle black tovarisch.”

“Oh I think there is no comparison when you add all of your libidinous liaisons.”

“I’ll have you know I have been celibate since we arrived in New Orleans. There’s so much going on here that I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”

“The great Napoleon Solo celibate?”Mark laughed.”Now there’s a word I never thought I’d hear in reference to you!

The four agents were casually dressed, sitting in a bar with no windows, only its louvered doors were folded back revealing the sidewalk and street that was now being drenched in a downpour of near biblical proportions.

Luckily the wind was blowing it in such a way that the rain wasn’t coming inside the bar.

“Well cheers to Illya and his weather sense; saved us from getting soaked,”Mark raised his beer mug in a toast.

As the others raised their glasses, the power went out. That elicited a collective moan from everyone in the premises.

The help immediately went into action, pulling out candles and hurricane lamp sconces in which to set them.

“No worries people,” the barman called.”This happens all the time. Power will be back up before you know it.”

Napoleon disappeared, answering the call of nature and headed to the men’s room in the rear of the bar. Once inside he set up his communicator. It didn't matter that it was dark.

“Channel F- Kripke.”

“Here sir.”

“What’s your status?”

“Power’s out sir; we have nothing but flashlights. The door can be opened manually from the inside so we’re not trapped in here, but we have no security cameras.

“All right, someone put on a rain slicker and stand guard outside the door. Use a specific knock for the door to be opened.”

“Mister Solo, we have a transistor radio on and the weatherman is saying we’re getting a big tropical storm. It was supposed to hit Florida but it changed course and New Orleans it’s getting a direct hit.”

“All right, Kripke. Cancel the guard and sit tight. We’ll be there as soon as we’re able. Solo out.”

Napoleon returned to the bar and looked to the barman.”Do you have a transistor radio?”

“Yeah somewhere around here. Why?”

“I suggest you turn it on. Apparently New Orleans is being hit by a pretty powerful tropical storm. You need to let your patrons know.”

“Heck, I can do that! Hey y’all we’re getting a tropical storm. Y’all wanna leave?”

“Hell no!” It was a collective answer.

“Well then, this round is on the house! Laissez le bon temps rouler!”

There was a series of hoots and hollers from the patrons.

“These people are a tad serious about their drinking,” Mark said.

“You have no idea,” Illya swallowed the last of his vodka and headed to the exit, following Napoleon.

April opened her large shoulder bag and pulled out a bright yellow plastic poncho, and a small folding umbrella.

The others looked at her, wide eyed.

“Well a girl has to be prepared.”

She and Mark held the poncho over their heads while Napoleon and Illya took the umbrella. It was one of those clear vinyl dome things that offered little protection for two adult men..

The best laid plans of mice and UNCLE agents didn’t last very long as a huge gust of wind blew away both the umbrella and poncho.

The agents watched as they went down the street, along with flower baskets, trash bins and you name it. If it wasn’t nailed down it was blowing away.

There were a few people running here and there, but the streets were mostly vacant. The French Quarter was pretty much on lockdown.Everyone was tucked in safely with all their windows and doors shuttered, except for a few bars filled with those not letting a little tropical storm interfere with their keeping their own personal Mardi Gras going.

The soaked agents headed straight to the hotel Monteleone to change their clothing. Management had been made aware of the planted explosives and were so grateful that the hotel and everyone in it had been saved, they gave the four agents rooms...on the house. That was going to make Accounting very happy back at headquarters in New York.

The lights in the hotel flickered on and off as they approached the desk to get their keys, but instead of taking a chance on the elevator a bellhop with a flashlight escorted them up the stairwell to their rooms.

Once changed into dry clothes, Solo and Kuryakin intended to head to the field office, wearing trench coats they’d brought with them. The hotel management gave them proper umbrellas as well. It wasn’t worth it calling a taxi to go to the distance as it was as it was just around the corner from the Montelelone.

The hotel manager was adamant at first about calling them a cab, but Napoleon insisted they weren’t going far and would be fine.

The lights went out again, and much to the manager’s dismay, the phones were out as well.

One of the employees appeared carrying an arm of hurricane style oil lanterns and set them on the front desk.

“May we have one of those. Our friends are without any lights at all and are in a windowless location.”

“Certainly Mister Kuryakin,” the manager handed one over to them. “Please be safe out there gentlemen. Miss Dancer and Mister Slate I take it are remaining here?”

Napoleon nodded. I may send some of my people here for a break. They can use mine and Mister Kuryakin’s rooms if that is all right with you.”

“Oh but of course Mister Solo,” the manager had been clued in about the presence of the U.N.C.L.E. in New Orleans and felt ever grateful for their saving the Monteleone.

Napoleon thanked him before saluting the man as he and Illya walked towards the door.

“Wait, one moment gentlemen. The manager named Dwayne Bedlowe, disappeared for a few minutes. He returned with a large paper sack. “Take this, as I think you and your people will need something to eat. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night.”

Illya accepted the bag, and feeling the weight of it he knew there was a lot of food in there.

They hurried along the sidewalk, staying as close to the buildings as possible as many of the overhanging balconies created some cover for those below.

It was getting dark and with the street lamps out it made walking a bit difficult. They arrived at the gate and Napoleon entered a code in a hidden keypad to open it. Luckily it was powered by a backup battery and was able to open the door in the middle of the gate.

Illya pounded the office door with his fist, rapping the agreed upon code.

Kripke opened up, greeting them with his special in his hand as he had no way to see who it was. It was a precaution of which Solo took note.

They lit the hurricane lamp and emptied the contents of the bag given to them by Bedlowe. It was filled with po’boy sandwiches, containers of gumbo, jambalaya and quite a few beignets. A veritable feast thanks to the hotel Monteleone kitchen.

Once they were done eating, Napoleon stood, clapping his hands, and rubbing them together

“All right gentlemen, and Valerie you have two options. You can stay here or you can go to the Monteleone. You can use the rooms that are set aside for myself and Mister Kuryakin.

Kripke decided to remain with them but the others opted to go to the hotel. It would probably be the only time they’d ever be able to stay there as none of them could afford it.

Napoleon and Illya offered their trench coats, but they were declined. The staff always kept rain gear on hand as it was the south after all.

Napoleon insisted they take a flashlight as he opened the door for them and watched as they headed out.

“Be careful out there.”

“Will do sir,” Valerie called back.

It was a wild night, with the lights flickering on and off multiple times. They could hear the wind howling from time to time.

Taking turns using the cot, they each got a bit of shut eye.

The first thing in the morning the power came back on, all systems were up and running. Kripke sent a status report to New York, though nothing was heard back from Waverly.

They opened the door to let in some fresh air, and were hit with ungodly heat and humidity.

Kripke laughed at Illya’s reaction as the Russian was not a fan of hot sticky weather.

Kuryakin gave him one of ‘those’ looks; Kripke got the message right away to never mess with the Russian.

“Today will be what we call a white linen night here in New Orleans,” he said.

“Why?” Illya looked at him.

“Well what we call a white night usually happens in August when it so hot and humid that everyone wears light white clothing. If you don’t have any, there’s a shop around the corner where you can purchase some if you like. It’ll help you feel a little more comfortable while you’re outdoors.

That’s all Napoleon needed to hear, an excuse to buy some new clothing.

Valmont and the others arrived, refreshed and ready to take over. The hotel had graciously cleaned and pressed their clothing for them so they’d be presentable to do their job.

The streets had been washed clean by the storm, all the shutters were now open and the city had come back to life again.

The bars they passed by were going strong. “Let the good times roll indeed,” Illya said as he sook his head.

They went to the shop recommended by Kripke, and it didn’t take long to find what they needed.

Solo’s choice included a wide brim Panamanian style hat, a jacket, a white polo shirt and pleated white pants. On his feet he wore a pair of white canvas sneakers that lresembled deck shoes. It was his plan to put the purchase on the expense account, and given the clothing was reasonably price he figured it would be approved.

After all they were staying here longer than anticipated and only brought so much clothing with them.

Napoleon selected a dress and wide brimmed hat for April, Mark, a simple pair of pleated trousers and a jacket. He already had a white shirt.

Illya chose a pair of white chinos that fit him like a second skin. He wore a black tee shirt and a white jacket to go over it. He pushed up the sleeves and finishing the look, he put on a pair of dark sunglasses. Like Solo, he wore a pair of canvas slip on sneakers He opted to go without a hat.

They arrived at the Monteleone carrying the boxes and bags containing the clothing.

“Ahhh, I see gentlemen someone clued you in on our white nights here,” Mister Bedlowe greeted them. “You fared well during the storm I take it.”

“We managed. Thank you again for accommodating my people,” Napoleon said.

“Please sir, it was my pleasure. Shall I ring Miss Dancer and Mister Slate that you have returned?”

“Yes by all means, please. Could you also send up room service for breakfast.”

“But of course. We can make for you Eggs Sardou...poached eggs, artichoke bottoms, creamed spinach and Hollandaise sauce, with sausage, and Calas umplings, Of course a selection of pastries, beignets, fresh fruit, coffee and tea.”

“Could you add some raisin rye toast as well?”Solo asked.

“Yes sir, anything else?”

“No thank you. Make that enough for five please?” Napoleon looked Illya straight in the eye when he said that, and Illya merely smiled back at him.

Together they ate breakfast with April and Mark, and afterwards they both changed into their clothing. April adored what Napoleon had selected for her. It was a simple short sleeveless dress, the hemline just above the knee; it clung to her in all the right places. With the addition of the hat and sunglasses she looked positively smashing.

Mark whistled as she did a little spin,”Luv, you look like you’re ready for a day at the races.”

She eyed him as well as Napoleon and Illya.” You don’t look so bad yourselves boys.”

It was a new day, clean and bright now that the storm had passed and though Illya said nothing, he still had a bad feeling there was still a storm on the horizon...maybe a THRUSH storm that is. He wasn't sure...yet.


	24. X is for Xavier

Illya and Mark had enough of the sightseeing; Kuryakin because of the extreme humidity, and his stitches had becoming annoyingly itchy. Slate because...well just because.

To him you could only take in so many sights in a few day’s time and he was just plain bored and tired.

They both begged off the somewhat guided tour. Illya wanted to go back to the hotel to shower; despite the light linen clothing he was wearing, he was feeling uncomfortable in the humidity. Mark wanted to just go take a nap.

Slate finally spoke up, “Look you two, Illya’s fairly knackered from this weather and don’t you go trying to take the piss out of me because I want a bit of a kip.”

“Heaven forbid,” April tried not to laugh.”Do you mind if we keep going darling,”she said to Napoleon. “I’m enjoying seeing the sights but it’s also educational as I’m learning my way around the city. That’ll help, just in case I’m sent here on assignment.”

“I have no problem with that, as long as we’re back by five o’clock. Waverly is sending in a new agent to replace the spot vacated by La Croix and I need to meet with him before he begins his duties.”

“And we can be assured this agent has been thoroughly vetted by both Security and Mister Waverly himself,” Illya added.

"What’s his name?” April asked.

“John-Baptiste Angelus,” Napoleon said.

“Now there’s a mouthful if ever I heard one,” Mark snickered.

“I think it’s a rather attention-getting name,” Solo replied.”Nothing wrong with a name that has panache.”

“Hmmm, this coming from a man named Napoleon,” April said.

Napoleon’s chin jutted out and he looked at though he were going to say something prideful. Given it was Lent, he decided against it. Illya was right when he said his partner needed more than forty days to repent his sins.

He supposed being in a city oriented to Catholcism reminded him of that, and even though he was very much attracted to April, it was better that he not scratch that itch. Granted she’d be a willing participant, as the two of them had already been intimate; perhaps it was a good time to not go in that direction right now.

Illya’s instincts were kicking in, even though he wasn’t sure about what just yet, made Napoleon remind himself that he needed to not be distracted by any libido driven thoughts.

Even though he sounded dismissive of any further THRUSH involvement after the fact, there was always the possibility they’d show up and try to build another nest for themselves. They didn’t take kindly to being driven out of a particular area which held interest for them.

With the port of New Orleans, Lake Pontchartrain and access to the Mississippi river. they offered quite a bit of opportunity and expansion for the Hierarchy.

“Our newest agent’s file should have arrived in a sealed courier pouch, so I’ll have the opportunity to familiarize myself with his background, before I meet him,”Napoleon said. “Go ahead you two, April and I will catch up later.”  
  
Solo and Dancer continued on, taking in a few more sights, though finally April brought up the subject of Marie LaVeau and wanting to see where she was buried.

Napoleon relented on the subject, and given it was still early afternoon he decided it would be all right to take her to see it.

As they made it to the gates of St. Louis Cemetery no. 2 and inside Dancer was amazed at the monuments there.

“It’s a whole different ball of wax at night April, and honestly it’s pretty creepy. The things Illya and I saw here on assignment last year...well let’s say we didn’t include any of it in our mission report as Waverly would have had us sent off to the booby hatch.”

“Really? Oh tell me please? I won’t share it with anyone.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to...well cross my heart.” No agent would ever jinx themselves by finishing the saying with 'and hope to die.'

“Well, where do I start...the St. Louis Cemetery # 2 is the oldest burial place in the city, with its twisted paths, crumbling corners of tombs, and dead ends that add to the feeling of loneliness. It sent shivers up our spines. If you listen, it’s oddly quiet here, apparently the walls and monuments keep it isolated from the sounds of the city. Our voices seem as if they were entombed as well”

“Napoleon, this place must be pretty eerie at night. I bet it felt as though someone or something could jump out at you at every turn from behind those mausoleums. Why are there so many graves above ground?”

“As my encyclopedic partner explained to me, it’s because the city’s position in relation to sea level makes it hard to bury the dead. The water table here would sometimes make coffins literally float to the surface, so the city fathers opted for these forms of internment instead of seeing the dead float away.”

“ No wonder it smells so damp and moldy here,” April said.

“Are you sure you want to keep going?”

“Oh what’s a little mold and mildew,” she laughed.

Crosses, statues on tombstone tops, and angels cast ominous shadows as the light of the day faded the father in they walked. Votive candles dotted some of the graves, a flickering reminder that the dead had living relatives that still cared about them.

“This place isn’t that bad according to Illya. He said Russian cemeteries, are so full that there’s no room to even walk among the crypts that date back much further in time than here. He said the mouldy stink of death there made this place smell like a rose garden.”

“Hmm, I was thinking that’s what I was smelling, old rotting death that is.”

“Really April we don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re a bit nervous about being here. So what exactly happened to you?”

Napoleon led her directly to the grey mausoleum of Marie LaVeau. In front of the grey stone mausoleum offerings were still scattered as last the time he saw it. There were gifts of Hoodoo money, cigarettes, bottles of alcohol, votive candles, Mardi Gras beads and dried herbs. The outer walls of the crypt were covered with small letters, XXX’s that had been scratched into its surface by supplicants asking favors from the ‘witch of New Orleans’ as she was sometimes called. Even in death she was supposedly powerful.”

“Now this is interesting,” April leaned forward to examine some of the gifts. She’d seen the likes of many of them in the hoodoo shop where she bought the doll...which of course she didn’t mention to Napoleon.

“So what happened to you darling?”

“I was sort of...well, the victim of a voodoo doll curse and we made arrangements to meet a woman named Mama Luc here to help remove the curse. He was almost embarrassed to tell her the story but he proceeded will describing Mama Luc to April.

“She was a grizzled sort of creature, with deep creased in the skin of her face. Her head was covered with a bright yellow tète en l’air scarf tied up into a number of peaks concealing most of her grey hair, across her shoulders and covering her worn black dress was a crimson shawl. Draped around her neck were long strands of bones and feathers, amulets and talismans, and hanging from a simple cord was her gris-gris bag adorned with a powerful mystical symbol of the ve-ve to protect her and allow her to practice her voodoo rites.”

To April that sounded very much like the woman from whom she’d bought the little voodoo doll the day before.

“You should have seen the doll April. It was in a small black box, resembling a coffin and inside it was a cloth doll made of burlap with crudely stitched cross-hatched eyes and mouth, and Spanish moss for hair. Its arms and legs bound were bound and a picture of my face was pinned to the head. Mama Luc told me it just might be a warning, and even though we told her we didn’t believe in the power of such things, she reminded Illya and I that was we did seek her out. She said ‘Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.’ She concluded the best thing to do was for her to get rid of the doll so it couldn’t be used against me.

“She held it up, pointing out that the hands and feet were bound, which meant I was bound. The man who bound the doll against me protected me from doing him harm. If I were attacked by him I couldn’t protect myself.”

“Really, now that is very interesting.” April nodded. She’d file that bit of information away for further use.

“To make a long story short, after performing a ritual with herbs and vials of liquid, and human bones, chicken feet...well she asked me if I had anything that belonged to the man I suspected of making the voodoo doll of me. Which I did...it was a bloody handkerchief with which the THRUSH agent had used to staunch the bleeding after he’d been wounded.”

“She produced another voodoo doll telling me blood was a powerful magic and good djudju for me. She wrapped the bloody handkerchief around her doll, then did the same with some sort of ornate necklace she had hidden in the folds of her skirt.”

”Dis now be a voodoo-mirror doll and dis a curse remover charm. Now we send dat curse back to him and give him someting more,” Solo imitated the woman. She began to chant, turning the doll above the burning cauldron in a trance-like state and called on something called Sousson-Pannan.”

“Oh I know what that is. It’s called a loa, one of the demon-spirits of the voodoo religion,” April said.

“How would you know that?”

“I read a few things while I was in that hoodoo shop.”

“Oh, well anyway a mist appeared around her, changing from white to red, then it took a more visible shape as some sort of creature. It looked human, but had an elongated neck, with the face of a skeleton. On its head was a weather-worn top hat. She told us not to move or it would attack. The mist moved over us and enveloped that very mausoleum,” he pointed to the crypt of LaVeau.

“Mama Luc tossed the mirror voodoo doll into the flames while she continued to chant. “I forge dis image, I bewitch it...da malevolent aspect, da evil eye, da malevolent mouth, malevolent tongue, da malevolent lip. Da finest sorcery...Spirits of da heavens, conjure it! Spirits of da earth conjure it! Sousson-Pannan I summon you! Drinker of blood and l’acool.”

"Mama Luc let out a long moan, and tossed the black voodoo doll into the flames. A blood curdling scream came from behind the crypt. A man staggered out and was enveloped by the mist. His hands were running all over his body as if he were on fire, trying to put out the flames until he collapsed. It was the Thrushie and he was dead.”

“A bottle of whiskey flew past us, shattering on the grave slab in front of of Marie LaVeau’s crypt, the red mist followed the whiskey as it seeped into the earth, disappearing after it. Suddenly there was a shrieking cackle, and Mama Luc was gone along with all her accoutrements.”

“Napoleon you’re right, that is a frightening story, Did Illya believe it once it was all over...you know him being a pragmatist and all.”

“At first he was is usual skeptical self, but given the numerous supernatural experiences we’ve had since then, I think he’s softened his beliefs regarding such things.”

“Numerous supernatural experiences? You’ve been holding back on me loverboy...speaking of which, why haven’t you tried kissing me at all since I’ve arrived.”

“It’s Lent, I had to give something up and since lovemaking is one of my favorite things in life I thought it appropriate. Lent as Illya said is a time to ask God for forgiveness and to atone for one’s sins. Given my long list, I figured it couldn’t hurt me to be a good Catholic boy and do my penance.”

“Napoleon, I knew you were a man of conviction but even this surprises me. I’m proud of you darling. Now if you don’t mind I think I’ve had enough of this place, and besides it’s getting late. Don’t you need to prepare for that interview with the new agent?”

“Thanks for the reminder and for the promise to keep what happened here private.”

“Anything for you darling. I’d give you a kiss but I wouldn’t want to tempt you.”

“Thank you April. It’s not an easy task behaving myself around you.”

Napoleon returned straight to the field office while April headed to the hotel to freshen up and see if Mark and Illya were up and about.

The table and chairs were back in the courtyard and Napoleon took the sealed personnel file there to sit and read over it.

Jean-Baptiste Angelus was of Creole heritage, orphaned at a very young age and grew up in a Catholic orphanage here in in the city. He attended Xavier University in New Orleans; it was a private, coeducational, liberal arts college with the distinction of being the only historically black Roman Catholic institution of higher education in the United States.

There he apparently learned to speak French, Italian, Spanish, Basque as well as a smattering of Russian and German. After graduating with honors he joined the U.S. navy, did his tour of duty and was recruited to the U.N.C.L.E. by none other than Waverly himself.

Napoleon smiled, recalling the Old Man doing the same to him when he’d gotten out of the Army after Korea. Waverly’s direct recruitment meant a lot.

Angelus’ Survival School records indicated he finished at the top of his class; it surprised Napoleon that the man wasn’t immediately selected for Section II. Instead he was being sent here to a field office. Napoleon found that odd, but Waverly had his reasons for doing things.

The door to the office opened and Kripke called out. “Mister Solo, you have a visitor outside, and I don’t think you’re going to be happy with who it is.”

Napoleon looked up, seeing an all too familiar platinum blonde standing on the sidewalk in front of the gate.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he shook his head.

“Not happy to see me darling?” Angelique’s voice oozed with its usual sensuality...


	25. Y is for Yat.

Napoleon slowly rose from his chair, tucking the personnel folder under his left arm, holding it there. He walked deliberately to the gate, though he had no intention of letting Angelique inside the compound.

“And how did you find me, may I ask,” he spoke in barely a whisper, not wanting anything heard on the surveillance cameras. Before she answered him he opened his communicator and called Kripke.

“Yes sir?”

“Cut the audio and video feed for the camera directed at the gate please.”

“But Mister Solo…”

“No buts, I'm giving you a direct order.”

“Yes sir, I’ll do it right now.”

Solo heard Kripke give the order.

“Done Mister Solo.”

“Now direct the camera away from the door.”  
  
"But it's off sir..."There was a distinct pause. “Done sir.”

“Good job. I’ll let you know when to resume surveillance on the gate. Solo out.”

Napoleon looked to Angelique, and eyed her up and down; she was wearing a l sleeveless white linen button down dress with a quite a few of the top buttons left open. She had on a pair of high heeled shoes, the kind that just screamed ‘fuck me,’ as they accentuated her calves, and mader her derriere jut outwards.

“I’ll repeat my question, how did you find me?”

“Darling, you know I just have this sort of natural homing instinct when it comes to my favorite lover.”

Of course that answer didn’t satisfy him. “What do you want?”

“Tsk, why the brusk treatment?”

“It’s Lent, you know when people give up things and atone for their sins?”

“Oh please, don’t tell me you gave up sex for that silly belief?”

“As a matter of fact I did.  
  
The look on her perfectly made up face was one of pure astonishment.

“Well since you won’t make love to me, at least come out and have a drink with me. Something cool as this abominable humidity is simply too much to bear.” She fussed with her coiffed hair that was a little mussed, something was unaccustomed to seeing her that way.

“You never answered my question, again why are you here.”

“Come have that drink with me and I’ll tell you.”

“Fine, just give me a minute. Solo went into the office, securing the new agent’s file in a locked cabinet. He handed the key to Kripke. “You’re not to open that. Only Mister Kuryakin and myself will have access to it.”

“Yes sir,” Kripke swallowed hard. Though he was curious about the new agent, he knew not to cross Solo.

Napoleon set up his communicator again, this time contacting his partner.

“Kuryakin here.” Illya was relaxing bed, reading a copy of the Picayune-Times newpaper.

“To use the Nawlins vernacular where y’at, tovarisch.”

“Y’at as in where am I at? The answer is my hotel room. Why do you ask?”

“Get to the field office to check in Agent Angelus as I might not be back in time. I have a visitor and I want to find out what she’s up to.”

There was a rather pregnant pause, “Do not tell me... _Angelique_?”

“The one and only.”

“I asked you not to tell me,” Illya huffed.”Why do I have a feeling your vow of celibacy is going to be short lived?” Kuryakin suspected she was the possible storm he was sensing.

“Oh ye of little faith. Solo out.”

Napoleon told Kripke to turn on the surveillance again as he left to have his meeting with Angelique.  
  
***

“Now see, that’s much better,” she smiled as he leaned in, giving her a peck on the cheek. “There’s a cute little bistro around the corner, why don’t we go there?”

“And how about we go to the restaurant in the hotel Monteleone instead," he countered."Nothing like a little better atmosphere for you to fill me in on some secrets." His unspoken reasoning was to go to a location of his choice, just in case Angelique was up to no good and thinking there might be a trap laid for him at that bistro; she was after all an agent of T.H.R.U.S.H.

“Oh I just adore your thinking, that’s quite an upgrade from just having a drink at a silly little bistro.

“Life has its perks now and then." He offered her his arm.

Once at the restaurant they had their drinks as well as an order of oysters Rockefelle,r which few knew had been invented in New Orleans. Oysters were also considered an aphrodisiac...

It didn’t take long before they ended upstairs in Napoleon’s room, and there on the sofa they did a little heavy necking and groping. Finally he undid her dress, and with a practiced hand he opened her brassiere with a flick of his fingers.

She shimmied out of her clothing, letting it drop to the floor, revealing that she was wearing no panties and only a white lace garter belt along with her stockings.  
  
"Letting things air out, he whispered as he nibbled on her ear lobe.  
  
"In this heat, of course darling."

As they kissed, she peeled away the layers of clothing Napoleon wore until he was naked. Scooping her up into his arms with ease, he brought her to his bed and there they made love, dozed and made love again.

“You realize you made me ruin my Lenten penance,” he whispered.

“I did not, you did it yourself. You ordered the oysters, and suggested I come up to your room with you _and_ you started kissing me and letting your hands roam. I must admit it was divine.” She reached for the telephone on the night stand and called Room Service?  
  
"Yes, can you send up a bottle of your best champagne to room 303."

“Oh really, my fault? Well, what’s done is done," Napoleon rolled over, facing her leaning his head in his hand while his arm rested on the pillow. "Now, isn’t it about time you told me why you’re here in New Orleans?”

“Oh yes, that. Word traveled fast that you took down our little satrapy and discovered the mole THRUSH had embedded in your field office.”

“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know…” he began kissing Angelique on the throat, working his way down her body, until she began to squirm.”

“I just wanted to know what happened to Pride and LaCroix, that’s all.”

“And nothing about Miss Georgia Couture?”

“Oh that little slut, she hasn’t a clue what she’s doing. UNCLE can have her as far as I’m concerned.”

“Down girl, time to retract the claws. Do I detect a bit of the green eyed monster in you.”

“There’s only one thing I want in me and you know what it is Napoleon Solo.”

“Happy to oblige ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that, I’m not your mother!” Angelique giggled.

“No you’re definitely not...Mmmmm.”

It was nearly five o’clock when Napoleon came up for air. “Sorry,” he looked at his watch.” I really need to go.”

“Mmm, yes. Sadly as do I.” Angelique gathered her clothing and quickly dressed, but not before she planted a tiny pin beneath the back of the collar on Napoleon’s white jacket.

Solo helped her buttom up her dress, and he while doing so he too stuck a bug beneath the collar. It was a case of great minds thinking alike.

He saw her down to the lobby and headed off to the field office to meet Agent Angelus. Napoleon thought it rather odd, Angelique showing up for a ridiculous reason, and now their new agent’s last name was Angelus. He wondered if this was the trouble with which Illya was concerned.

“Nah,” he waved his hand thinking to himself that it was mere coincidence. Then again Illya would say there was no such thing as coincidence when it came to THRUSH. Only time would tell if that were true.

Once back in the office, Solo indicated the others remain quiet as he took a radiofrequency detector from one of the desk drawers and ran it across his body.

“Tsk,” he clicked his tongue as he located the bug his lover had planted, and removing it from his collar he dropped it into a nearby glass of water. "Courtesy of Angelique."

Mark and April were there as well but unlike Illya they were unaware La Chien had shown herself.

“You’re kidding? She was with you?” April snapped.

“If you mean in the biblical sense, then yes,” Napoleon answered her as if he were merely telling her the time.

“Son of a…gun!” She started to curse but restrained herself. April reached over and drew a long blonde hair from the shoulder of Solo’s jacket. It was obviously not Illya’s.

“Listen, it’s all right," Napoleon said."I planted one of our bugs on her. Valmont tune into the frequency 398.605 MHz.”

Valmont did so, and they heard Angelique La Chien’s voice. “Yes they have Cassius and Nathaniel as well as that useless Georgia Couture. No doubt they’ll be taken to the UNCLE prison in the Antarctic.”

She was obviously talking on a telephone, and they were unable to hear to whom she was speaking.

“Yes I understand darling. So New Orleans is out then. Fine, we move to Florida, at least the beachers are nicer there. Must you send me? Good, thank you. I prefer a little less humid climate, it's great for the complexion but not for my hair. Very well, I will meet with you in New York. A bientot.”

She hung up the telephone receiver. “Did you get that Napoleon darling? I’ll see you in New York.” Suddenly Angelique screamed. There was a thud and she moaned.

“Napoleon Solo what did you do to me! “There was a loud squeal as she must have crushed the listening device.

“Well how about that,”April laughed. “These voodoo dolls really do work.”

She held up the little cloth gingerbread doll she’d bought. A small photo of Angelique’s face had been pinned to it with the single strand of blonde hair wrapped around the neck. Protruding from the rear end of the doll were the two long hat pins.

All heads turned, looking at April. No one knew what to say, least of all Napoleon Solo.


	26. Z is for Zatarains

The initial surprise at April Dancer sticking hat pins into the bottom the voodoo doll of Angelique wore off quickly but instead of annoyance from Napoleon, everyone including Solo broke out into a loud belly laugh.

The laughing continued until their sides hurt, and tears actually fell down Illya’s cheeks as he was laughing so hard. He especially appreciated April’s little tactic given the dislike he had for Angelique; granted, she couldn’t stand the Russian either.

Napoleon finally held out his hand. “I’ll take that please.”

April took it as an order and not a request, after all he was her superior. She carefully placed the doll in the palm of his outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” Napoleon quickly removed the hat pins as he looked to Illya.

“Are we going to require the services of Mama Luc... _again_?” Illya snickered, wiping the tears from his cheeks. April was the only besides Solo who understood that question, though as promised she didn't let on that she knew.

“No. I think I’ll just hold onto this.” Napoleon tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket and tossed the hat pins in a trash bin. Not that he’d use it against Angelique, but still it was a bit of ammunition to keep to the side, just in case. He had to think over what he should do with it.  
  
Napoleon did know that he was going to have some explaining to do with Miss La Chien if he did indeed meet up with her again in New York. His instincts told him he would.

As to what Angelique said during the phone conversation, he took it as a gift from her...a thank you for there little liaison here in New Orleans. She did things like that.

Both UNCLE and THRUSH knew of their involvement with each other and tolerated it, turning a blind eye as it were.

Periodically Napoleon and Angelique would feed each other information that was sometimes false, or sometimes had a ring of truth to it. It was part of the game. They both knew the day might come when one of them was ordered to kill the other, and it would have to be carried out. Until then they'd enjoy the sex, and it was very good sex...

“Mister Solo sir,” Kripke interrupted. ”Our new agent has arrived.”

They all looked to the courtyard security monitor, seeing Jean-Baptiste Angelus standing there at the gate. His photograph had been posted and there was no mistake in recognizing him.

He was young, fresh faced and dressed in a well tailored suit. His coloring was fair, but his facial structure and the tight curliness of his dark hair gave away his mixed heritage. He looked calm and collected as he waited patiently outside the gate.

“Let him in,” Napoleon said. He nodded for Illya to accompany him to the courtyard where they’d conduct the intake interview

It wasn’t for the hiring process as Waverly had already seen to that, no, this was just to get a feel for the guy and clarify the job title and job duties.

“Mister Angelus,” Napoleon held out his hand and Jean-Baptiste shook it with confidence.

”I’d welcome you to New Orleans but that would seem a bit redundant. My name is Napoleon Solo.

“Yes sir I know who you are. Mister Waverly had high praise for you, and you as well Mister Kuryakin. He said you were his top agents, but pretty much everyone knew that at Survival School.”

Illya greeted Angelus in Russian, and the young man gave a proper response. His pronunciation and accent were spot on.

“I understand you speak a number of languages,” Napoleon said. “A fair few for a young man.”

“I have an ear for it sir. As a musician I can pick up the nuances of a language, its rhythm you might say. I have a very good memory as well.”

“Ahh a musician, what instrument do you play Mister Angelus?”Illya asked.

“I play the keyboard, and guitar, though I’m just an amateur. I used to sit in with some of the jazz sessions in the French quarter while growing up here.”

“Then you are far from amatuer,” Illya nodded. He didn’t mention that he too played the same instruments as well, along with a few others.

“You are aware that you’re replacing an agent who was stationed here,”Napoleon said.

“Yes sir. Mister Waverly explained to me that the previous agent named La Croix was a THRUSH mole. “

“And you will be assuming his full duties but as assistant to a new Station Manager, a Section II agent. That's a change in UNCLE procedure."  
  
"Yes sir I'm aware of that."  
  
You have very high Survival School marks; how do you feel about not being a Section II yourself? Napoleon tossed him that zinger just to see how he’d react.

“I understand the responsibilities of the position, and you’re wondering why with my qualifications am I still in Section III. That was at my request sir. Given I’m fresh out of Survival School, I thought it appropriate that I learn the ropes from the bottom up. Given I am thoroughly familiar with this region, it was a good place for me to start. I requested to come here and Mister Waverly seemed pleased with my reasoning.”

“He was?” Illya asked.”Mister Waverly does not do things lightly.”

“Yes sir, I know the territory and its people. He has a concern over potential problems with the Port of New Orleans as an entry point for THRUSH weapons shipments. Sending them up the Mississippi would be an efficient method of distributing them or any sort of equipment, while keeping it all under the radar. It’s Mister Waverly’s intention to promote me to Section II at the appropriate time, as well as make me the station manager once I’ve gained my footing, so to speak. It’s my understanding that Mister Kittridge will be holding the position until improvements are made here with the current staff and he determines I’m ready to take on the position.”

“Well Jean-Baptiste, if I may call you that. You’ve summed up everything very nicely. Welcome to the New Orleans field office,” Napoleon said.

“Thank you sir. It’s my town and I’m determined to keep it safe.”

Napoleon nodded.” Let’s go meet your fellow staff members.”

The introductions were made and a very brief tour of the station was completed, and just in time as Kit finally arrived.

As always, the Aussie greeted his fellow Section II agents in an insulting manner, it was meant more as a of term of endearment as he’d worked with Solo, Kuryakin, Dancer and Slate on many’s the assignment.

“What a mob of drongos to meet and greet me here, and why are you all dressed in white? * It’s not even Easter yet.”

“Something to do with the temperature change caused by a tropical storm that blew through recently,” Napoleon said. “How’ve you been Kit?”

“Fair to middlin’ mate. So how long you here for?”

“Well now that you’re here, it’s time for us to leave darling,” April gave him a peck on the cheek.

“You have a decent crew here Kit,” Napoleon said. “With a little tweaking, they’ll be great. Oh and make sure Valerie gets a raise.”

“Will do mate. Thanks for holding down the fort and cleaning out the bird mess. Safe journey home to ya.”

Napoleon and the others bid their goodbyes to the staff and headed out.

“So one last fling before our flight to New York tomorrow?” Napoleon asked.

“How’d you know it’s tomorrow mate,” Mark asked.

“Mark, that’s a secret...you know spy stuff,” Napoleon winked.

Illya leaned towards Slate and whispered. “ Kit handed him our tickets.”

Mark shook his head with a smile, but chastised himself mentally for not being more observant.

“Come on darlings, it’s our last night on the town. Where should be go?” April chimed in.

“I could go for some etouffee and perhaps a crawfish boil,” Illya said. “And a jazz band...do not forget the music.”

“And I could go for a po' boy and beer,” Mark added.

“And you Napoleon?” April asked.

“I’ll go for whatever y’all want, “ he tried to sound like a local, but apparently failed.

“Napoleon, again your accent is just awful,” Illya quipped. Not that it really was, but the Russian’s comment had become a bit of a running joke. The truth be told, he did think Solo’s French accent was terrible.

Solo, as usual, ignored his partner's insult. "Well then I think the Purple Unicorn is in order."  
  
"I was hoping you would say that," Illya rubbed his hands together.

“Well then, lead on McDuff,” Solo waved them on.

Late the next afternoon they were back in New York with Solo and Kuryakin in conference for their debrief with Mister Waverly.

“Well done, well done in New Orleans gentlemen. The new intelligence you uncovered in regards to THRUSH nesting somewhere in Florida is being investigated. Now there are a few other matters we need to discuss. Apparently costly damages were done on a riverboat named the Natchez, and there is the question of some missing costumes from said boat. I know you were graciously offered hotel accommodations at the Monteleone but there’s a room service bill involving a rather expensive bottle of champagne. There’s also a matter of linen clothing for the two of you as well as Miss Dancer and Mister Slate.”

“I can explain sir,” Napoleon said.

“I’m sure you can. Make it reasonable as Accounting is questioning everything to do with this affair.”

“I would think they might appreciate the Monteleone giving us free accommodations for having saved their hotel and guests from being blown up by La Croix,” Illya said. “Therefore we did save on our hotel expense.”

“Though they are aware of the hotel’s generosity, that does not negate what they’re perceiving as frivolous expenses.”

Napoleon and Illya looked at eachother; it was going to be a long debrief.

…

Later that night, Napoleon invited his partner up to his apartment for dinner.

As soon as the Russian walked in the door he raised his nose, sniffing the air.

“I know that smell,” he smiled.

“You better. I bought this in New Orleans as a treat.” He held up a box of Zatarain's spices. “It’s what they use down there for the distinct flavoring in their food.”

Illya walked into Napoleon’s kitchen where there was a large pot of gumbo simmering on the stove. He looked at his casually dressed partner and noted he was wearing his alligator shoes.  
  
"Still breaking them in I see," Kuryakin noted.  
  
"They're a little stiff, but I'm sure they'll soften up soon enough."  
  
"Speaking of money..."  
  
"Who said anything about money?" Napoleon asked.  
  
"You still owe me for those shoes."  
  
"And I will pay you...next pay day." Napoleon redirected the subject. "Et voila mon ami, a taste of New Orleans.”  
  
"I have heard that before. Be forewarned Napoleon this meal does not in any way shape or form absolve you of the money you owe me."  
  
"Scout's honor, I'll pay you back."  
  
In Illya's mind that cast a major doubt as when Napoleon used that phrase, he was usually lying. He said nothing though, and trusted that he would indeed see his money...eventually.  
  
Napoleon doled out two large bowls of gumbo while Illya sliced a loaf of French bread, and together they feasted at the dining table. Napoleon provided a very nice bottle of Riesling to go with their meal.

“This my friend is a good way to close the book on a mission," Illya said.

“Amen to that my brother. Cheers!” He held up his glass of wine in toast.

“Da, a zdorov'ye Tovarisch.” Illya nodded.

“Oh, by the way I did run into Angelique,” Napoleon said as he put down his glass.

“And you survived her ire? She sounded as though she was ready to kill you when she blamed you for the pain in her backside, though I am unsure as to why she accused you. Is there something more that happened between the two of you than your usual carnal session?"

“Oh no, nothing at all. I straightened that out with her. No harm, no foul...for me that is.”

“Please do not tell me you gave up April as the culprit?”

“Would I do that her?”

“Well I suppose not. So what did you tell the dog?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that Illya.”

“It is her name.You know La Chien means ‘the dog’ in French.”

“Tsk,” Napoleon clicked his tongue.

“Well, did you tell Angelique what caused the pain in her posterior?”

“Oh I let her know it was a voodoo doll, which I gave to her by the way.”

_“And…_ ”

“I told her you did it.”

“You did not!” Illya was aghast.

“Well it made sense as you and she are always at each other’s throats.”

The look on Illya face was priceless. Instead of pouring himself another glass of wine, he grabbed the bottle and drank heartily from it.

“Hey that’s an expensive wine!” Napoleon protested.

Illya put the bottle down on the table with a loud thump.

“You owe me on this one! Really Napoleon, setting me up for trouble with that bitch? How could you?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time…” Solo shrugged, while trying not to smile.

Of course he didn’t really blame it on his partner. He told Angelique that Georgia Couture managed to do it just before she was shipped off to Antarctica...

  
  
  


*** drongos is Australian slang for ‘idiots’**


End file.
